


blooming chrysanthemum

by Cat_Face



Series: suzuki likes affection [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Accidental Watersports, Ahegao, Anal Fingering, Cock Worship, Coming In Pants, Deepthroating, Dissociation, Excessive Fantasy, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fear of Discovery, Forehead Kisses, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Milking, Minor Angst, Minor Begging, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Prostate Massage, Skull Fucking, Squirting, Vanilla
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2019-11-21 09:59:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 118,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18140729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Face/pseuds/Cat_Face
Summary: Three works linked together. Tags and summary will be edited with each chapter.1: In which Suzuki has a minor mental breakdown and babbles about everything that makes him cry, milking tears out of himself... and ends up getting semen milked out of him too.2: In which Suzuki finally comes to terms with his situation after crying his heart out (again)... then gets driven to the ground trying to keep quiet in a room of four kids as he gets milked (again).3: A. In which Suzuki (unsurprisingly) loses the (skewed) game...but since he’s been such a good boy, he gets a surprise treat.





	1. stress and trigger

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoy! 
> 
> minor edits for grammar/spelling if i happen to find any.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Suzuki has a minor mental breakdown and babbles about everything that makes him cry, milking tears out of himself... and ends up getting his semen milked out of him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 70% suzuki background, 20% foreplay, 10% porn this chapter haha. it ended up a lot angstier than i intended.
> 
> notable tags in this chapter: multiple orgasms, nipple play, minor begging, hurt/comfort, vanilla, kissing, dissociation
> 
> ctrl+f (or find in page if you’re on mobile) to the time 8:26 PM if you really wanna just get into the porn.

**Thursday 11:42 PM**

Suzuki scrolls listlessly through his phone, switching between apps in an attempt to keep himself entertained. He keeps his eyes painstakingly focused on his screen, its blue light making his eyes throb and sting even with its brightness turned all the way down. With his thumb, he taps on Skyward in the app shelf located on the bottom of his home screen, enters his pass code with Touch ID, selects the account labelled “Me,” then surveys his grades with muted interest. He taps each class period with his index finger to look at his graded assignments.

His still-raw tongue absentmindedly swipes in his mouth to push at his front teeth. It stings just a bit when his taste buds catch at the ridges of his teeth, but he ignores it. It feels a little good, actually, but he suppresses that thought as soon as it comes. He purposely crosses his legs underneath the blanket, relieved when the bed doesn’t creak with his movement. Personal… worries aside, it’d be bad if his parents saw him on his phone so late on a school night. They’d probably nag him until their voices haunted his dreams.

Well, that’s if they even wake up with that small amount of noise… Suzuki shifts uncomfortably under the blanket.

He gnaws the inside of his lip and looks back at his past assignments for a long moment, skimming through weeks and weeks of work. If he’s being honest, his numbers could improve with more effort and time, both of which were in high quantity. After all, he wastes 2 hours a day waiting for his father to pick him up from school, and it’s not as if he spends that time doing homework.

His grades are good enough to make his mother smile whenever the report card comes in the mail, though, so he never worries too much about getting top scores. He probably _should,_ but then again, he never really does anything he _should_ do. AKA, cry for help when he…

He blinks his head clear, shifting a bit to ease the stress on his back and the arousal in his pants, then exits the chemistry tab he had opened. The screen showing his semester grades greets him once more, and he looks over them, grateful for the distraction. 

> World HistoryAP (Lewis) **98**  
>  AlgebraII PreAP (Mickinson) **96**  
>  PRINHLSC (Irvine) **100**  
>  Eng II PreAP (Griffield) **95**  
>  Health (Miles) **100**  
>  Accounting I (Tran) **97**  
>  Chem PreAP (Jennison) **100**

His numbers are actually pretty good, if Suzuki’s being fair to himself. They're much better compared to last year. He inwardly cringes at the thought of freshman year’s flat 90 in World Geography. That forsaken subject had been his first period, meaning very early in the morning, and the maps he’d been made to do ended up being subpar at best. He’d always carefully aligned the latitude and longitude from the textbook’s map onto his own, but he’d always been off by a few degrees every single time! The whole map-making process that many of his peers were able to master just never caught on with him, and he still doesn’t know why. Needless to say, every test had to be winged from memory even with the usage of his amateur map. Unfortunately, that tactic didn't serve him well in the long run. His memory was _not_ good enough for remembering all 30 physical features labeled in a particular region far off the coast of where he lived. An indignant pout mars his face as he thinks about his past test grades, saved only by the countless extra credit assignments he’d turned in.

Brooding over the lack of importance World Geography possessed in his life, as well as his lack of mastery in it, he flips over to his side with a huff, facing his parents’ bed and sending a low pulse of arousal through his belly when his underwear chafes his penis. He ignores it. His screen darkens a bit, and he taps his index finger on it before it turns off, letting himself broil in his academic performance for a bit longer. It’s not long before he ends up thinking about his rank.

World Geography is the sole the reason it ended up being so _unsatisfying_ to hear about where he stands among his peers. His rank isn’t the worst it could be; in fact, he’s the highest ranker among his group of friends, but it most certainly isn’t the best it could be either. Rank 18 out of 559; he’s 8 ranks too low to be satisfied. Hell, maybe even 17 ranks too low. He breathes a quiet sigh and buries his nose into his over-sized pillow case, pressing the top edge of his phone against his forehead. With the offending angle it’s positioned in, the light shines directly into his eyes, but he doesn’t really care. Actually, it kind of reminds him of…

...

Suzuki shuts his eyes at the same time his screen goes dark. Snapping back awake in confusion, he hurriedly moves his phone away from his face and presses his right thumb to its home button, automatically entering his Touch ID. With a flash of bright light that makes him flinch, Skyward pops back into view. Just then, his parents let out a rather loud snore from in front of him, and a spike of arousal makes him clench underneath his blanket. Again, he ignores it and keeps his hands exposed to the cool air in the room. Sticking them down his pants at this point wouldn’t do much good anyway.

In an effort to distract himself, he exits his own Skyward account using the upper left back arrow and is sent to the account selection page. It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the stark black text on the white background with blue accents, but he’s able to read the words clearly. As he glosses over the names in his account list, some as robotic ID numbers and most just plain ridiculous, he feels a small smile pull at his lips.

> Me  
>  Holly! :)  
>  Awwsome Guy  
>  MIKEY MIKEY O CRIKEY  
>  Grace  
>  Linh  
>  603882’s FORT BEND ISD ACCOUNT  
>  Dumbass  
>  Haaaaaaayyyyyyyddddddeeeeeennnn  
>  Wawawawawa  
>  509872’s FORT BEND ISD ACCOUNT  
>  Juuls  
>  minha  
>  Roachie poachie

He remembers when he and his friends first found out that the account names on Skyward were customizable; it’d been such a huge discovery that they spent three whole 55-minute class periods texting each other about what to name one another. It started out innocent and sweet: Suzuki became “Suzie,” Michael became “Mikey,” Julie became “Jewel,” Linh became “Lenny,” and Grace became “Gracie.” However, as most things go in his friend group, it became a messy mix of an insult contest and an inside-joke compilation.

For instance, Julie became “Juuls” after she jokingly put her name as the vaping product on a project and forgot to change it before she presented it:

> “So I was presenting my English project, right, on a Powerpoint and stuff. Then I see people laughing, so I’m like ???... I’m deadass about to talk about, like... the Holocaust. So I turn around to see what they’re laughing at and the slide headass says ‘Theresienstadt Red Cross Hoax by: Juuls’ and I’m like OHHH... FUCK…”

Michael became “O CRIKEY” after his ridiculous skit recording in WHAP showcasing the discovery of Australia, in which he wore a stupid kangaroo onesie: 

> “Crikey mate I mean… ain’t nuttin’ but a crikey ol’ penal colony here mate… not a tree in sight eh, jus’ a crikin’ ol’ criminals… ooh ah crikey m’tail fell off!”

Linh and Grace switched names after several people kept mistaking them for the other person:

> “Linh, did you do the homework for English?... Oh, did you cut your hair? It looks good.”  
>  “I’m Grace.”  
>  “...oh.”  
>  “...Suzuki, this is the sixth time this week…”

and Suzuki somehow became “ONIGIRIRIRIRI” after his obsession for onigiri came to light:

> “It tastes good!!”  
>  “Yeah, but you eat 6 of them _everyday!!!!”_  
>  “So what?!”

And since each account name was specific to a device, someone could change a name on someone else’s device without consent and everyone would be none the wiser. To avoid this, they all pledged a makeshift blood oath with Kool Aid, promising to not stray from the path of assigned names. Suzuki has yet to break it, and, as far as he knows, nobody else has yet to either.

The smile on his face is embarrassingly wide after reminiscing about his friend group’s shenanigans. He curls his lips inwards in an attempt to reign himself in, but the more he thinks about it, the less he can control himself. His eyes catch on the name _Roachie poachie,_ named after Lily who likes to ask for his onigiri, and he breaks into silent giggles, dropping his phone near his face to slip his arms under the blanket. He pulls the fabric up to his mouth to stifle his laughter. The bed shifts a little with his movement, a stark rustling sound in the quiet room. The warmth of the cover feels amazing on his cold arms, and he snuggles further into his blanket.

He stays like that even after his giggles settle down, relaxing into the comfort of his bed. He knows he should probably plug his phone in to charge before he dozes off, but he can’t bring himself to break out of his sleepy cocoon and expose himself to the harsh, cold air of the room. Once he figures out that the dull, gnawing feeling of not doing what he’s supposed to do keeps him from falling asleep completely, he decides against his laziness and shifts one of his hands upwards from its resting place near his abdomen. He unintentionally brushes a chilled knuckle against a section of his tummy, which had been exposed when his shirt rode up while flipping on his side, and the sudden sensation of half-warm, half-cold makes him shiver.

For some reason, he has the bright idea to reach his still very _cold_ hand down to clamp it around his very _warm_ leg, presumably to heat his fingers up before reaching it out of the blanket. It doesn’t work that well, of course, and as soon as he registers the icy burn on his leg, he retracts his hand quick enough to accidentally drag his fingertips against his tummy, and he flinches from the cold with a sharp intake of breath. He places both of his hands on the outside of his blanket like a scolded child.

He’s wide awake again. There’s a stinging, tingling sensation on his arms as they adjust to the change in temperature.

The spot where he grabbed his leg burns with a minty type of spicy feeling, and he can feel his hand print form on his skin. It tingles underneath the warming heat of the blanket. His somewhat less-than-sober mind has another bright idea to stick his hand down his pants, just to feel what it’s like. Despite the clear knowledge of knowing that it’d do him no good, he follows his impulse without thinking too much about it.

He sets to work and rolls over to lie flat on his back. However, at the exact same time his back hits the mattress, one of his parents lets out a loud snore. The noise freezes him in place, legs tangled up in his blanket. He listens for eight beats of steady breathing, intermixed with softer snoring, before he resumes his movement. He’s careful when he kicks out the blanket from beneath his feet and even more careful when he spreads his legs, not rustling the sheets any more than he needs to. His right hand slips beneath the blanket to trail down his tummy, his cold fingers making his invisible hairs stand on end and leaving a path of goose-flesh. Once he reaches the band of his grey sweatpants, he quickly dives his hand underneath it to have the shock of cold electrify his penis, which had been half-hard for… quite a while. He tenses, holding in a hiss at the hot sensation of the cold, but his hand warms quickly from the heat of his penis. The feeling is so strange that it numbs his hand for about ten seconds before the heat settles in and he feels a pulse of shivery pleasure.

He lazily plays with himself, fondling his balls and shaft; he’s not really chasing after release, but he can’t deny the spike of pleasure that comes from another loud snore in the bed next to his. The proximity of the sound only reminds him of the first time he’d gotten that notification on his phone; the day he’d lost his virginity; the day he got fucked to tears; the day he got defiled to the point where he was ruined for a normal lay… He doesn’t realize his mouth is open until he closes it to lick his lips, and he has to run his raw tongue along the sides of his mouth to ease the prickly sensation of dryness. His hand moves a little more purposely, rubbing the side of his shaft with its thumb to stimulate heat and bringing himself to full arousal.

His eyes close as he concentrates on the feeling of his hand. He tilts his head sideways, brushing part of his cheek against his blanket, and his mouth parts open to let out soft puffs of air. He moves slowly, idly, as fuzzy memories of pleasure swim up to his mind.

That first night alone, just how many times had he orgasmed? As he recounts his memories, a drop of pre-cum slides down his shaft. His first orgasm… he recalls the person’s hand around his penis, rubbing him nice and slow, like they were testing the waters. They had teased him with experienced hands, making him twitch and come with just the slightest touch, and he feels both a pang of arousal and jealousy as he thinks about the implications of their expertise. He ignores the pain in his heart in favor of massaging a spot just under the crown of his penis, focusing on the pleasure. His second orgasm had come soon after the first, and he remembers his initial confusion when their hand continued to touch him even when his pretty little cock dripped with pearly white fluid. He twitches in his hand as he jumps forward and thinks about how they’d just continued to do whatever they pleased to his body regardless of whether or not he came, but he quickly reigns himself in and tells himself to go slow. His third orgasm was much more… intense, and it had been the point where he began struggling to keep his voice in check. At that time, the stimulation of his penis became borderline painful, and he’d started to beg sweetly for them to stop.

Suzuki squeezes his cock as he shivers from the pleasure that laces up his spine. _They never stopped._  

He doesn’t have the patience to go through his orgasms one by one anymore, so he skips to the point where they’d began fucking him. He feels his thigh muscles tense in anticipation, and he tries to pull every sensation from his memory to the front of his mind just to feel their pleasure again. He can only vaguely remember the feeling of the nubs popping into his hole, dragging against his prostate one by one or two by two or three by three again, and again, and again until their pelvis was pressed flush against his plump ass; he fuzzily remembers the feeling of being stuffed so _full_ of their cock and being unable to breathe without pressing it into his prostate. His hand becomes slicker with pre-cum as he vividly remembers the squeak of his bed and his parents’ breathing with every movement inside of him, and he spreads his legs wider, feeling his sweatpants stretch to accommodate his hand.

He tries to think harder about the nubs and how they felt grinding against his walls, but he can’t seem to grasp the memory completely—they were round, yes, hard, yes, _good, yes, god! yes, but it’s not enough—_ and he’s frustrated; the pleasure he feels is so empty without the overpowering sensation of those _nubs_ and the orgasms he remembers are so blurry and incomplete!

In a last ditch attempt to release his sexual frustration, he thinks back to the still-fresh memory of the cock in his mouth, even though he knows he _really_ shouldn’t. His mouth waters at the thought of the meaty, savory taste of pre-cum and flesh, and his hole clenches in excitement when he remembers the feeling of rippling nubs against his tongue. His tongue tickles the back of his top teeth, pressing a narrowed tip against his gums, and he has the strangest thought that reminds of the nub just below their slit, and suddenly he’s assaulted with sensations of it grinding into his prostate and throat. A spike of pleasure shoots straight to his cock. He clamps down on a moan when he remembers that his parents are _right there,_ and he’s got a hand down his pants thinking about how he choked on a cock and _came_ while doing it. His ears open up at the thought of his parents. He can hear the _shlick_ of his cock as he moves his hand up and down, nowhere near the level of dexterity as that person had when they jerked him off, but it feels _good!_ A clear, distinct memory of lumpy and hard nubs grinding against his esophagus bubbles up from the depths of his throat, and _god, it’s so good—_

But utter embarrassment and humiliation and mortification abruptly crashes into his entire being when he remembers how he’d wrongly panicked at the thought of them leaving, at the thought of being alone; so much so that he cried like a child for no fucking reason! They had to comfort him for…how long? _How long?_ How long had he spent crying?? He’d begged them not to go when they were—... and then he’d gone on his merry way, let himself be carried on by the current of arousal, let himself get full of himself when he’d literally just bawled his eyes out—then first period… two days later he just—in front of _everyone_ he—

Suzuki’s promise of explosive pleasure turns into a sick churning of his stomach as he cringes into another dimension. The embarrassment he feels is so potent that he has to draw his pre-cum soaked hand from his underwear to cover his face. He resists the strong, strong urge to screech, and he compensates by pressing his hands more aggressively onto his face. It’s not the first time he’s had to do this, unfortunately, and the sticky moisture that adheres to his face is nothing more but added comfort at this point. His pending orgasm deflates, and he feels the lingering pulses of pleasure as nothing but weight to the dread and mortification in the pit of his stomach. He just _can’t_ believe he— His gut foams with nauseating discomfort, unable to help the urge to cry. He flips back over to his side, wiping his face and hands clean with his blanket as best as he can, then curls back into place. He tries to ignore the throb of heavy and damp dissatisfaction between his legs and blinks the tears out of his eyes; it’s cold, it’s _cold._ He really—... _why?_

He stays like that, gripping his blanket and feeling bitter tears seep into his pillow, until he falls into a fitful sleep at **2:12 AM**. He dreams of warm, loving hands and kisses of praise, the clean scent of linen, and maybe even a kiss to his lips.

Yet, despite his begging dreams, he wakes up alone and groggy at **5:45 AM**. His phone is dead.

However, strangely, really truly ever so strangely, his dusty portable charger is plugged into the outlet above his home-use one. He ignores the flutterings in his heart and churnings in his stomach, and takes the portable charger with him to school.

It’s the first time he’s seen it, let alone used it, in 3 years.

 

**Friday 5:36 PM**

_“Haruhisa.”_ Suzuki looks up from his phone at the sound of his mother’s voice, keeping the screen close enough to illuminate his face but not enough for it to be rude. He keeps his right thumb on the screen, mid-scroll, while both of his hands hold the phone steady. His mother is standing at the opening of the corridor leading to their bedrooms with a passive face. The smell of paint and sawdust that wafts from the hall still irritates his senses, but it’s weaker than when his father had first started remodeling his room against his consent.

He regards her with a questioning look. Multiple possibilities of why she’s calling him out runs through his mind: did she find his porn stash on his computer? Is she going to congratulate him on his A+ in chemistry? Does she want him to wash the dishes? Does she need money? Is she planning on divorcing his father? Did she find out about _that?_

Guessing his mother’s intentions is hard. He can never tell whether she’s really mad or not, but this time he bets his luck on the latter. He studies her posture closely to confirm his guess, and Suzuki’s glad to see her weight shifted lazily on one foot. She’s much more tense when she’s mad; she usually stands at attention and looks like she’s about to whack him upside the head if he even breathes incorrectly. Plus, he hasn’t done anything bad enough to upset her... At least, nothing he’s done that she’d know about. Hopefully.

He swallows the sick arousal that spreads from his throat. It’s been three weeks since _that_ happened, and Suzuki still feels "it" deep inside his mouth. (He also feels the utter embarrassment from cursing out loud in class, of course, but he really, _really_ tries not to think about that.) Ever since he found out that the Fun Dip bars taste exactly like the thick and syrupy cum he swallowed that day, he’s been getting aroused just at the thought of putting those white candy bars in his mouth. It’s more than a bit ridiculous, he knows, but he can’t help it; the taste of it consumes every part of him and his mouth waters just thinking about it. The fact that he’s been unable to bring himself to orgasm in _three weeks_ doesn’t help either. He swallows again, then crosses his right leg over his left and focuses back on his mother.

She’s looking at him expectantly. Ah. _“Yes, Mother?”_ He says. Experiences tell him that she dislikes it when he neglects to vocalize his acknowledgement. She’d started the behavior after they came to America, and he still doesn’t quite understand why. She shifts her stance imperceptibly, but Suzuki catches the small change easily after years of learning to read his parents’ movements. Strands of black hair fall peacefully onto her shoulders.

She’s satisfied now. More open to suggestions.

 _“Emi has invited you over to her house for the weekend,”_ she says. He blinks in surprise but remains silent. She has more to say. His thumb releases from his phone screen, and he shifts his hand to the right to press the power button using his nail. He then flips his screen over and lays his phone face-down onto his thigh, resting his left elbow on the couch armrest and his right on the couch cushion behind him. The phone in his lap slides downwards onto the couch with a _fwump._ He ignores it. His posture becomes straighter as he gives her his full attention. _“Her children want to see you again.”_

Suzuki blinks once more, then softens his eyes, feeling a warmth blossom in his chest as he remembers Aunt Emi’s children.

Quiet and obedient, with just a little bit of mischief. Three boys and one girl, yet the girl seemed to be the most “manly” out of all of them. A smile pulls at his lips when he remembers how the boys had run to him in a panic when there was a roach skittering across the floor. However, the girl, named Ayako, bravely chased it with a Raid spray for a solid 20 seconds. The room had smelled of sour pesticide for a long, long time afterwards, and he’d had to explain to Aunt Emi why her Raid can was empty when she got home from running errands. All of them were young and under the age of 10. The oldest was a very cute, mild-mannered Kenneth at age 9 while the youngest was a very sweet, somewhat oblivious Keith at age 6. The two middle children had been adopted by Aunt Emi after her and his mother’s sister, Aunt Hinata, died of a car accident back in Japan. The warmth in his chest tinges with a bit of sorrow at the last thought, so he pushes it away. From youngest to oldest, their names were: Keith, Amano, Ayako, and Kenneth.

 _“Will I be staying over?”_ He asks. The last time he’d visited was on a three-day weekend brought about by the celebration of Labor Day back in September. His mother had told him to pack clothing and bathroom essentials to sleep over 2 nights; however, upon arrival, he found out that Aunt Emi had already prepared everything for him to stay over. He’d arrived on a Saturday and left on a Monday, and the weekend was filled with silly shenanigans. He and the four kids built pillow forts, played house, watched TV, and played hide-and-seek. It wasn’t exactly something suitable to his age per se, but he’s always been more childish than the majority of teenagers around him, so he didn’t mind.

 _“Yes. You’ll leave with her tomorrow and go home on Sunday.”_ His mother’s face doesn’t change as she speaks, but her voice has a strange tint to it. He can’t figure out what emotion is causing it. Is she sad, glad, mad? A mixture of all three?

Suzuki doesn’t dwell on it, instead honing in on her words. _“Leave with her? Does that mean she’s driving me?”_ His past trips have always been driven by his mother.

Strands of black hair are displaced from their harmony as she tilts her head slightly downwards. _“Yes,”_ she says in _that_ voice. Suzuki still can’t quite place the emotion, but it dawns on him as she speaks her next sentence. _“She and her husband are coming here to pick up some furniture, so she will drive you back with her. It saves time and gas.”_

He processes her words. Aunt Emi’s husband? Uncle Masaki? Coming here? _Oh._ He studies his mother’s posture once more: distant, passive, calculated composure; connects it to her words: blank, straightforward, calculated delivery. Pieces begin to click into place.

His mother and uncle-in-law have always had… tension between them, especially after Uncle Masaki’s marriage to Aunt Emi, and even more so after Aunt Hinata’s death. Suzuki’s thoughts sour.

Trying not to think about Uncle Masaki, he gropes for his phone, not bothering to look down to search for it with his eyes. Once he feels its familiar plastic case, he grabs it and presses the power button with his thumbnail. He lifts it to his face. A familiar lock screen of pink and white reads the time and date in black text:

**17:42**

**Friday, March 8**

_“I understand.”_ He says absently to his mother. Underneath the time and date, there’s a curved banner notifying him of 78 new Whatsapp messages from his group chat with friends. The most recent message, sent 23 minutes ago, seems to be about some kind of picture someone shared. He presses his thumb to the home button to unlock his phone with Touch ID, then swipes until he sees the Whatsapp icon. There’s a staggering 99+ unread messages showcased by the app’s red bubble, but that’s to be expected when he never really checks Whatsapp until someone tags him or he has a question. He taps his finger onto the app and a whoosh of familiar anticipation tingles his body— _are they going to—_ but it dissipates as soon as the Whatsapp group chat opens, leaving in its place a lingering sense of longing and a mild sense of embarrassment.

What is he hoping for, anyway?

Suzuki shakes the feelings off. With the help of Whatsapp’s convenient button, he jumps to the top of the chat where all of the unread messages start, then scrolls all the way back down. His eyes catch at some messages such as “I bet Suzuki got a 110” or “i have a 30 in art lmao” and “Someone in my class got an 8 on the quiz LMAOOOO” and he makes a note to himself to go back and read them all one by one. For now, though, he taps the message entry line and enters his thoughts: 

> You  
>  We don't have any homework right? 

From the corner of his eye, he sees his mother shift and turn, walking back towards their bedrooms. As soon as her footsteps fade to nothing, he swings his legs up onto the couch, gripping his phone to his chest so it doesn’t fall. He lays the middle of his back onto the armrest and wiggles his body downwards until the back of his head takes its place. His shirt rides up with the motion, and he hurriedly tugs it back down with a couple of _fwumps_ as he lifts his body upwards to do it. His feet go over the edge of the other side of the couch, but it’s not by much. Out of habit, he crosses one leg over the other. As he’s settling down into the couch, his screen, which dimmed a bit because of his settings, lights up. He looks down his chest to see new messages from Michael.

> Michael  
>  yea  
>  unless ur doing a ceiling tile

Suzuki almost snorts. He can’t even imagine painting a ceiling tile, even for 10 extra credit points. Hell, he can barely draw a passable cartoon dog! He thinks back to all of the WHAP ceiling tiles he’s seen so far, particularly from Grace, and feels a wave of awe overtake him. Grace has painted two tiles so far: her first was the Egyptian Sphinx, then the second a [rendition of Mona Lisa](https://i.imgur.com/KG3MDOk.jpg). Both garnered massive praise from his WHAP teacher, Lewis, as well as from all of her classmates. Suzuki himself often finds his eyes wandering to the ceiling just to have a staring contest with her ridiculously good Mona Lisa. A wave of familial pride rushes through him every time he looks at it,but he also feels a tinge of envy. He wonders what it’s like to be _that_ talented at something. He has good grades, yes... but that’s it, isn’t it?

All he has is good grades.

A bit downtrodden but never one to leave someone hanging, Suzuki swipes the first message Michael sent to the right with his thumb. It pulls up a green banner above the message entry bar, and he types in his reply with two thumbs.

> Michael  
>  yea
> 
> Thank you

He swipes the second message and does the same. He notices that the two check marks below his own messages are blue; everyone in the chat seems to be present and reading the messages, but they’re not saying anything. It makes him feel a little paranoid.  

> Michael  
>  unless ur doing a ceiling tile
> 
> You’re funny

He waits for someone to reply, holding the phone steady with two hands. He has the vaguest clue that he’s being somewhat lame by staring at his screen and doing nothing, but what else is he supposed to do? The cursor in the entry line blinks at him mockingly, ironically mesmerizing him. His trance is interrupted by a dull ache in his neck, and he flips to his side, facing the couch. It’s a much more comfortable position; his back cracks with the movement and that eases its tension. However, he thinks better of the vulnerable position and flips to face the corridor instead, scooting to press his back against the couch. Even though it’s less conventional, it feels safer this way; his phone screen is unexposed and he can see whenever someone enters and leaves the corridor.

A change of color catches his eye, and he pulls his phone back from his chest to look at the screen. There’s a new message, this time from Grace:

> Gracie  
>  Not like you need it anyway tbh

Suzuki can’t help the small smile that pulls at his lips. His grade in WHAP _is_ good enough to go without the extra credit. Even so, he could still use it to boost up his god-awful group presentation grade from January. An 85! An _85!!!_ And it wasn’t even… He tamps down on his bitterness and reminds himself that he should probably move on. It’s not that deep. _It be like that sometimes,_ as Julie likes to say. It takes him a few more moments to gather his thoughts.

Just as he presses his thumb down to swipe right and reply to Grace, a white notification square abruptly pops up, and he feels a shock of excitement course through his body. He hurriedly slides his thumb to the right of his phone to read the box’s text. _Did they—_

**Low Battery**

20% battery remaining.

Close

Suzuki stares at it. And stares. And stares.

It’s his breaking point.

The shaky huff of pitiful, surprised laughter that soon escapes him is out of his control, and he presses the top edge of his phone against his forehead. His mouth is open until he closes it to grit his teeth. The light that shines into his eyes is a welcome offense, yet it does nothing but irritate the moisture threatening to leak out, and he grinds his teeth together in an effort to hold it back. A swirling mix of embarrassment and unfounded sorrow has him instinctively curling up on the couch, drawing his knees to his stomach. It’s useless anyway; all of it’s useless. He presses his phone against his forehead hard enough for it to slip and slide upwards, dragging painfully against his skin. He shifts his thumb to the side and presses the power button, turning the screen black. It soon lights up again, however, as the Whatsapp group chat picks up speed; _bad timing._ The bright white and pink lockscreen makes him turn his nose into the couch, clogging his senses with the comforting scent of suede. He presses his phone against his face, flattening his nose. The light is even closer to his eyes now, and there’s a nagging in the back of his mind that keeps telling him _Wrong Wrong Wrong_ but he can’t seem to muster up the courage to pull the phone away, so he just shuts his eyes and hopes the nerve damage won’t be enough to warrant glasses; he doesn’t want glasses; his mother wouldn’t approve; his mother never approves; nobody ever approves; nobody ever _tells_ him anything;

It’s dumb, he knows, how fucking _sad_ he feels because they haven’t contacted him in so long. It’s fucking stupid. It’s not like it’s ever been an established communication between the two of them; they probably have stuff to do even if they’re not human; they’re not… he’s not a priority, he knows; he knows! He's overreacting and he knows. He knows that! But he can’t stop the whirling behind his eyelids as his screen lights up, then darkens, then lights up again and again and his friends must be waiting for a reply, or maybe they’re carrying on the conversation without him; he never speaks much anyway; there’s never a reason for him to speak; people never give him a reason to speak; he’s a good child, he knows, so why—

 _“Haruhisa.”_ His mother’s voice jolts him free, and he hurriedly pulls his phone away from his face to look at her. His vision is blurry, and he has half the mind to rub at his eyes with three fingers, swiping the tears away in one direction. He blinks until he can focus clearly on his mother, who stands at the same spot as earlier. The sides of his face are wet. His fingers are wet. He wipes the pads of his fingers on the suede couch, trying to ignore the feeling of the extra-damp spot where his eyes had been. He hopes he’s far enough that his mother’s less-than-perfect vision can pass off the moisture as something other than tears. Drool, maybe. Yeah, drool. He can do with the embarrassment of drool.

 _“Yes, Mother?”_ His voice is raspy. It’s fine. He can pass it off like he had been sleeping. His mother is looking at him quizzically, but she doesn’t say anything. He hears a shuffling farther down the corridor, and it’s his father; of course it’s his father, who else would it be? Santa? The Easter Bunny? Is Lord Raijin going to eat his fucking belly button? Suzuki holds the phone against his cheek with his left hand and digs the nails of his right hand into the couch. Some of the screen light still reaches his eyes in flashes, but he ignores it. His father soon appears from behind his mother and he’s looking at him with a stern face; he knows he must look fucking stupid, curled like a shrimp on the couch; he’s going to be scolded; of course he is. Of course he is. He doesn’t even like shrimp. Nobody in his family likes shrimp.

 _“Your father and I will be heading out to run errands.”_ He knows that; he knows. Why else would they be leaving him home alone? She doesn’t need to tell him. He doesn’t want to know. _“We’ll be back in two or three hours.”_ He knows, stop talking. It’s loud; just leave;

It’s annoying.

 _“I understand.”_ And he does. _“Get home safely.”_ They will. They always will, until they don’t. He says it because that’s what he’s been taught. It can’t be helped. _It can’t be helped._ He wants to be good. He’ll stay quiet, he’ll be good, just leave. Just leave just leave just leave

Please leave

His mother and father both say something, but it doesn’t register. He’s already said what he needs to say; anything more is just a waste of effort; he doesn’t need to answer anything else. He listens for the shuffling of footwear and the clack of his father’s dress shoes, gazing dazedly at the coffee table in front of his eyes, then the click of the lock and the slam of the door. It’s not the front door; it’s too loud to be. It’s the garage door. The sound of the car starting up is louder than he remembers; they forgot to open the garage before they started the car; ah… they’re going to die of carbon monoxide poisoning, and a surge of absolute dread pierces his gut, but it’s fine; he knows it’s fine. He hears the mechanic whirring of the garage and suddenly the car is being backed out. He listens until the sound of the car is far, far away, but he can still imagine its familiar rumbles and rickety sounds.

Then, it dawns on him that he’s alone.

He’s _alone._

The ticking of the mechanical clock drums an unsteady rhythm in the stale, empty room. His mother had bought it years ago, back in Japan, showed it to him with excited eyes, gave him a pretty smile. _“Haru-chan, look at your mother’s antique buy! Isn’t it lovely?”_ His mother hasn’t called him Haru-chan in so long. He can’t remember what it sounds like anymore.

In the corner of his eyes, a change in the pattern of lights has him sluggishly pulling his phone back to look at its screen, a spark of hope igniting him even though he knows it’s useless.

**Low Battery**

10% battery remaining.

Close

Suzuki feels a fresh wave of tears leak from his eyes, and it hurts. 10%... it’s already been that long since 20%? His eyes burn, but it feels good to cry; it’s a familiar heat and it’s comforting but he knows it’s going to hurt even more later; it’s going to puff up his eyes and he won’t be able to close them, but it’s fine. There’s no reason to cry, but he is, and it’s so _stupid._ He’s so _stupid._ He thinks back to the days he humiliated himself; cursing in class was fine, it’s fine, but he… of course they haven’t contacted him, why would they? He’s an idiot. He’s no good at pleasing them; he’s never good at pleasing anyone, not his father nor his mother nor his aunts nor his uncles. The screen seems to move back and forth and it takes him a while to realize that his left hand is violently shaking. He lifts his right hand up to support his phone, gripping it hard enough for his fingers to turn white.

He blinks tears out of his eyes at the same time his right thumb blindly taps onto his screen to close the low battery notification, feeling drops drip down his face and into his ears. There’s a strange flash of light right when he closes his eyes, but he’s too dazed to register it as anything more than his imagination. When he focuses back on his screen, the battery notification is still there, and he writes it off as his thumb simply missing the “Close” button. He’s greeted with a banner of 99+ unread Whatsapp messages on his lock screen, underneath the time reading **18:57** , as well as some emails regarding college admissions. He can’t be bothered to read any of it, so he slaps his phone face-down onto the suede in front of his face with a _fwump._ He curls into a tighter ball, squeezing his head between his shoulders. He laces his fingers together as a pathetic substitution of comfort and watches silently as his phone lights up the brown suede of the couch.

It’s too quiet. The ticking of the clock is even louder now, and he can hear his whistling breaths. His lips are chapped. His mother wouldn’t like for his lips to be chapped, but his lip balm is in his room; it’s too far. He doesn’t want to get up, but he has to be good, yes, he has to charge his phone too, yes. Ah, no, it’s not even in his room, is it? It’s in his _parents’_ room. He’s made that mistake before; going into _his_ room while his father was in the process of remodeling it. He got yelled at for stepping in the sawdust. He didn’t want to trouble his father anyway. He told him, _“You don’t have to. I like my room as it is,”_ yet it didn’t matter regardless. His father’s scolding hadn’t hurt then, so why did it hurt now? He shuts his eyes as an empty feeling carves itself into his heart. It’s fine. He’ll do it before his parents come back. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?

However, after running the entire day with only 3 hours of sleep, he dozes off by **7:07 PM.**

**7:32 PM**

Suzuki tongues curiously at the object in his mouth, furrowing his brows at the sensation. There’s a dulled, rigid part of it that can cut into his tongue, but the rest of it feels more… wiggly? Elastic? He struggles to find proper words to describe the feeling, but it’s pleasant enough to warrant a suckle. He doesn’t hear the intake of breath from above him. He has the vaguest clue that he’s lying in his bed. There’s a familiar ruffle of cloth on his pillow case and a smell of jasmine around the room, but he doesn’t really remember it being this warm. He’s definitely not complaining though. Sleepily, he tries to get more of whatever is inside his mouth, lapping at it with childlike enthusiasm, before he feels three quick breaths of laughter against the top of his head and the distinct feeling of an index finger rub at his jaw line.

His eyes snap open, but it’s not like he can see anyway. He’s in his bed. Warm. They’re _here._ How? Why? _When?_

Suzuki flinches away from them, their thumb popping out of his mouth, but the movement causes a pounding headache to sear through his brain. His tired eyes leak with new, pained tears. One of their arms, slung across his body, pulls him back towards their chest, but that just worsens the pain when it causes his head to bob back and forth. It’s also too hot!He’s sweating and it feels like he’s about to overheat. He lets out a strained whine, shaking his head even though it feels like it's throwing his brain side to side in his skull. He has to let them know—

“I c-can’t today…” His voice comes out barely in a whisper. He sounds so stupid! And all he can think about it is how he embarrassed himself in front of them and even though they went out of the way to come and see him, he can’t; he really can’t—

They press a meaningful kiss to the top of his head, and it calms his nerves somewhat. The kiss buzzes with pleasure, unwinding bits and pieces of his frazzled mind. He relaxes a little, but then he feels the bed shift with their weight; and suddenly, they’re pulling away from him. The overbearing heat becomes a damp cold and he shivers with the loss. In his panicked confusion, he grapples onto a part of their smooth clothing out of instinct, and before he can stop himself he says:

“Wait…” He regrets it as soon as it comes out of his mouth, and he pauses with his mouth open. All he’s doing is the same thing as he did last time, isn’t he? They have all the reason to leave; he just said he _can’t,_ hadn’t he? Why would they stay if he can’t even bring himself to feel pleasure anymore? He’s sure they must have other things to… other _people_ to tend to. Someone who can… who deserves it. And yet, a selfish part of him wants them to stay; he just wants…

_Please don’t go_

He shuts his mouth, not daring to say the second part of his sentence, but he keeps his hand gripped onto their clothing in a silent plea. They’re completely still, seemingly pondering their next actions. The loud _tick tock tick tock_ of the clock sounds from the living room, and he wonders what time it is. His parents aren’t back yet, so no later than 10:00 PM, but it’s still a wide range of time. His eyes hurt. They’re sore, yet all he can do is uselessly blink the tears out of his eyes. He’s too scared to wipe his eyes and his nose; he’s too scared to move at all. He can’t even bring himself to breathe more than a few sips of air at a time, hyper-aware of every movement he makes. The pounding of his head centers in his right eye, and all he can feel is the _throbbing;_ it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts _make it stop_

He hears them shift cautiously, the bed creaking just a little bit. The hand that threads itself into his hair is unexpected, and Suzuki involuntarily flinches from it. Another wave of searing pain overwhelms his head, making him exhale in a rush. They don’t follow his movement, instead trailing their hand down to cup his right cheek. With gentleness he doesn’t deserve, they rub their thumb lovingly underneath his eye. They do it long enough for his left hand to loosen its grip on their clothing, sliding down to rest on his belly. Warmth emanates from his hand, soothing the churning of his stomach and compensating for the loss of heat from earlier.

Their thumb travels downwards to press into his lips, and he licks at it gratefully, suckling it into his mouth. Each lick eases the pain in his head. The bed creaks as they settle down next to him, and they swipe their wet thumb on his bottom lip, spreading his saliva like gloss. It cools in the room’s air, but it’s a welcome chill. Suzuki gives the pad of their thumb a small kiss in a bold show of gratitude. He feels more than hears their other arm slide over to his belly, and a bolt of butterflies rushes in his stomach as they lace their fingers in his. He flushes in the dark _—they’re holding my hand they’re holding my hand—_ and he hears a chuckle from above him. Their hand is warm and calloused and large, and he squeezes it experimentally. He can’t help the awe that rushes through him when they squeeze his hand in return, and he’s so happy that’s it a little sad, but it’s just... _they’re holding my hand..!_

He feels their thumb run across the ridges of his own, sending ticklish tingles down his spine and making him shiver. The thumb resting on his lip reaches up to rub at his puffy eyes in question. For some reason, whatever reason, Suzuki is compelled to answer them.

“I…” He hesitates. Another rub to his eye, accompanied by a squeeze to his hand. He licks his lips before he continues. “Was I… Did. Were you…? I mean…” He feels like an idiot, speaking to someone who hasn’t even uttered a word to him. What he’s trying to ask isn’t even that important; he’s just curious, is all. That’s it. It’s not… important to _them_ it’s just…

A nail scratches at his bottom lip, and he takes it as a clear warning—well, it’s motivation at this point—to blurt what he’s thinking in a whispered rush:

“W-Was I good? I mean, when I suckedyouoff. I mean that’s… it’s not like I was? Right? It was my first time and I thought I did good but the more I thought about it the more ashamed I got. I mean it’s not like I… you c-came so I thought I did good, but then it took you longer than usual to contact me. I mean I know you’ve only come to me twice but I k-kept track and the first interval was only 10 days but this time it’s been almost 22 days and I… wereyoudisappointed?” Suzuki takes a breath, flushes, squeezes their hand for dear life, then continues:

“Because I… I mean you… you have others right? I’m not the only one you… I know you’re not human. You’re probably not monogamous and that’s fine—I-I wasn’t expecting you to be but I was just—there’s plenty of species who aren’t monogamous—sorry this is stupid but I’ve been- I haven’t-” God he should _really_ shut up but he can’t stop; three _weeks_ of suppression and here he is just exploding:

“Is there a reason why you… I can’t really—well I mean I can but—it’s just…” Suzuki breathes in deeply out of frustration. He takes a moment to gather his spinning thoughts, trying to ignore the growing sense of dread in his heart.

“A-Are you okay with” **_a useless fucking sack of emotional distress_ ** “...me?” His voice breaks. He said it. He _said it._

They remain silent.

Well, of course they remain silent; they never speak in the first place.

Fuck. He’s an idiot. He’s also panicking. He’s a panicking idiot. Shit.

The longer the quiet stretches on, the more Suzuki feels like committing seppuku. He’s sure his father still has those antique swords somewhere in the attic. He has the pitiful urge to laugh, and he actually tries to, but all it translates to is violent trembling. Their thumb swipes at some of the tears that escape his eyes, and they squeeze his hand reassuringly.

Suzuki hesitates in his silence, and they squeeze his hand again. It dawns on him that they know. They know he has more to say; that he has not only three weeks of suppression but years; years and years and years.

For some reason—the same reason he’d even started speaking; the same reason he’d even let it _get_ to this point—he resolves to just… let go. He takes a deep breath, grounding himself using the sensation of their warm, calloused hand in his. They let him rest for a long stretch of silence, caressing his cheek lovingly in its duration. After what had to be more than a few minutes, he swallows the lump in his throat, and starts to speak:

“I um… moved here when I was 10. From Japan.” He whispers quietly, turning to his side and facing their body. The movement causes the hand on his face to slip away. Without missing a beat, though, it finds a new place and begins carding through his hair. He curls around the hand interlocked with his. 

“My parents didn’t really tell me anything when they took me to the airport. I thought we were just going to visit a tourist attraction, like when we went to New York or Yellowstone Park.” A sad smile curves his lips as he remembers his innocent family outings, and their fingers ghost lovingly over his forehead.

“They looked so serious, but I didn’t understand why. They kept repeating the same phrase, _‘It can’t be helped,’_ over and over and over. Do you know what that means? Because I... It was what my mother used to say every time I complained about a bug bite in the summer. I didn’t know why she kept saying it when I asked her where we were going.

“I didn’t realize something was wrong until my father drove by a building and said, _‘Look, Haru, there’s your new school.’_ I thought he was joking and laughed. But then I remembered that my father is not the type of man to joke around. Like, at all. So I asked him what he meant by _‘new school’,_ but he just looked at me like I was stupid.” Suzuki can’t stop the bitter huff of laughter that escapes him. “I probably was, back then. Oblivious. He assigned me a tutor to improve my English over the summer, and then all of a sudden, I was enrolled in an American public school by the end of September.”

Suzuki pauses, taking in a shuddering breath. Their hand rests on his head.

“I… It was so strange… Having so many strangers call me by my first name. My mother used to tell me that only special people should call me by it. I hated it. I hated it so m-much…” He shudders out a breath, reaching up with his free hand to swipe and flick tears out of his eyes. He sniffles wetly and curls further inward. His voice is nasally and annoying, but he can’t bring himself to care. “It felt so wrong… I-I started writing it as Suzuki just to… just to make people stop because nobody would remember that I didn’t want to be called...”

He takes a breather. He’s trembling again, but he has to keep going; it’s liberating to finally be able to say it, even if it’s agonizing. The worst part is that this isn’t even the _worst_ part. He digs the nail of his index finger into the hand holding his, and they give him a firm squeeze in response. 

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye to anyone… Nobody. I made promises to play with Miyuki-chan; I was going to race Kuusuke down the street; I was going to... uh… kancho Hirokawa-sensei…”

...Suzuki can’t help but giggle breathily at the last memory, and a warmth spreads in his aching chest as he hears the person chuckle with him. He stays quiet for a while, letting himself bask in the bittersweet glow of childhood silliness. They rub their thumb lovingly along the side of his hand throughout the silence, and his breathing slowly evens out. After a few minutes, he sniffs in just to get rid of some of the snot dripping from his nose. It feels gross, but he doesn’t mind too much. He takes another deep breath.

He can do this. He can. 

“I-It took me a few years to finally settle down and make some friends. Well, two friends, actually. Besides my parents, those two are the only people I’d let call me by my first name. They don’t need to know that though…” Suzuki would snort if he could, but he can’t so he doesn’t. “The way I met them was so unconventional, to be honest. They just annoyed me until I talked to them, and all of a sudden they were my best friends.” 

He hears them hum in interest. He’s pretty sure they know who he’s talking about, somehow. A flutter of shyness dances through his stomach as he wonders how they know. Feeling a little brave, he pulls their interlocked hands towards his lips and presses a kiss to their knuckles. The hand on his head rubs his scalp in seemingly surprised appreciation, and he blushes as he realizes what he’d just done, losing his train of thought.

“Um… I. Oh. Right… Um… I guess living here wasn’t as bad as it had been when I first… Many times, I, um, felt like I could be a legitimate American? If that makes sense. I even popped a couple of fireworks on the 4th of July. I think eating two double cheeseburgers was my rite of passage.” The person chortles at his joke, and he smiles, brushing his lips against their knuckles.

His shuts his eyes as he thinks about what he’s about to say. It digs a deep hole in his heart, but somehow it’s not as painful as he thought it’d be. The hand on his head gently tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. 

“But then I… found out why we moved to America in the first place… or more like I just pieced it together.” He breathes slowly. Their fingers ghost his skin, letting him take his time. “Two years ago, my mother asked me to babysit a couple of my small cousins while my aunt went out of town for business. I accepted, of course. I have…always been good with children, I think. 

“But then I realized that their ages were too close together to have all been Aunt Emi’s children. Two of them were just barely 6 months apart. I found that out by teaching them about horoscopes…haha…and then I started wondering why some of their names were so Japanese while others were so American. You know? It was like, two of them were clearly named differently than the other two. It was kind of dumb, really…One of their names was Ayako... and it was the same as Aunt Hinata’s daughter... Same with Amano, but he was a boy. I didn’t really, I guess, connect two and two together until I asked Uncle Masaki when he g-got home from…earlier than Aunt Emi did…and I guess he didn’t get the memo of keeping it a secret from me b-because—” He has to rest before he can continue. The thumb of the hand atop his head slides down to wipe the tears out of one of his eyes. Despite their efforts, wet streaks stain his cheeks and dampen the cloth beneath his face, and he has an appalling sense of deja vu.

“He told me that Aunt Hinata had died from… It was the same year my family moved here… I-I didn’t know… I—” His tears are a mix of bitterness and sorrow, “—Why didn’t they just _tell_ me? _F-Four years—”_ In his overwhelming flurry of emotions, he begins to slip into his native tongue, but he can’t bother to speak in English anymore, it’s just—

 _“I spent four years…”_ He trails off again, but this time he has no intention of continuing. Like a child, he curls in as close to them as possible, seeking heat, and both of his hands find purchase on whatever warm skin is closest. His right hand ends up gripping the arm belonging to the hand holding his left. It’s an awkward position, but he doesn’t care. He lets himself snivel and whimper, unable to stop his body from shaking.

 

**8:26 PM**

Suzuki feels the person’s body shift, sending a bolt of panic through his tired body. He anxiously revitalizes the grip on their hand and wrist. He blinks his puffy eyes, feeling hot tears start to form even though he’s already cried so much. Mucus threatens to drip from his nose again, even after they’d been so nice to clean him off. A placating hand threads through his hair, gently pushing his head, which had risen from its place on his pillow, back down. Unsure of their intentions, he squeezes his eyes shut in fear.

Please don’t go

He hesitantly pops open his eyes when he feels them slip off of his bed. A wave of unease fills him, but it’s subdued by the way they continue to hold onto his hand tightly. He lets his arm be moved however they want it to move even as his bones creak and his muscles ache, if only because he doesn’t want to let go of their hand. There’s thirty seconds of adjustment before he feels them slide their body next to his, pulling a blanket past both his and their shoulders. Judging by the incline of the blanket, the person is facing him. Suzuki instinctively scoots closer to them, moving his right hand to grip at their silky shirt.

He knows it’s kind of pathetic how he clings to the person every time they appear, but he hopes they don’t mind too much.

As if knowing what he’s thinking—which seems to be a running theme—they wrap their left arm around his body to tug him closer under the blanket, pressing a kiss to his hair once he’s close enough. He can feel the upward curve of their lips, and a tingle of satisfaction nestles within the crevices of his mind. The two of them remain like that, quiet and tranquil, until a wiggle of embarrassment worms its way into the forefront of his conscious.

 _“...S-Say, are you…”_ Suzuki starts, speaking in Japanese just in case it’s too vulnerable-sounding in English. He’s already gone through the brunt of everything, but still. He has a little bit of dignity left. Besides, if they can’t understand Japanese, then that’s all the better… it’s either they understand and they answer his question, or they don’t and he can forget about it. He bites his lip, thinking over it. What if they don’t answer him even if they understand? It’s not like they’ve answered any of his questions from earlier… Ah… earlier… Suzuki flushes as he remembers what he had asked them.

What the hell did he mean, _was I good?_ He even told them that he’d been obsessively checking how much time it took them to contact him! Is he stupid, or is he stupid?! God, not only had he sobbed out his life story, made himself out to be a child, and enjoyed getting violated, but now he seems clingy and dependent! To be fair, he  _is_ _,_ but still! He boils over it internally, hiding his face in the heat of their chest. He berates himself for speaking without thinking and chews at his lip harshly.

Please forget about it

The arm around his waist moves upwards just slightly from his tailbone to the middle of his back. He doesn’t expect the sharp scratch of a nail on one of his vertebrae through his clothes. He sucks in a surprised breath, releasing his bruised lip from his teeth. Their nail digs into his skin and drags slowly upwards, pulling on the fabric of his shirt as it goes. It runs over the ridges of his spine unforgivingly, and he twitches on every bump. Suzuki arches his chest against them, trying to escape from the burning trail of their nail. It’s clear they’re admonishing him, and in his shock he forgets what he was going to ask.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers feebly. The pain is not so much physically excruciating as it is emotionally devastating. _I did something wrong._ The finger finally stops at the middle of his shoulder blades. They smooth their palm down his back, unfolding his shirt which had ridden up slightly while they punished him. He trembles with the remaining sting of the scratch. Surely, if he were to look in the mirror, there’d be a long, red, and thin mark running down his back. A soft kiss is pressed to his head, almost saying _I’m sorry you made me do that._

Suzuki wonders anxiously about what he did to make them upset, hoping to find a way to rectify his mistake. He thinks back to all of the times they’d scolded him with their fingers; was it because he couldn’t do something? ...No, he couldn’t take them down his throat by himself, and they didn’t get mad at him for that. Rather, they got upset when he stopped spreading himself for their cock when he felt... the nubs…

His thought trails off, and his cheeks heat when a memory swims to his mind, a thrill of arousal making his hole clench. He feels their nose brush curiously against his head, an amused exhale fluffing up his hair as they guess what he must be thinking about.

Suzuki steadfastly ignores it in favor of focusing on finding answers.

They also scratched him when he tried to stop coughing, hadn’t they? Since they liked it when he coughed. Out of habit, Suzuki rubs his prickly tongue against the roof of his mouth, feeling the texture of his inflamed taste buds. Another memory swims up to his mind from his throat. His hole clenches again, and this time it sends a shock of pleasure that has him squeezing his legs together. A very soft, breathy whine escapes his watery mouth. He has to swallow to avoid drooling. They press their nose into his hair, and he can _feel_ their smirk as he shyly burrows further into their chest.

“Hmm?” A deep, teasing purr rumbles through the air, and a meek noise escapes the back of Suzuki’s throat in response. _God,_ he wants it. He’s ashamed of himself; he’d just gone through so many painful memories and now he’s aroused just because they held his hand and cuddled him for a bit, but it’s been three weeks… He squirms slightly underneath the blanket, hyper-aware of the person in front of him.

The sudden pang of discomfort when he remembers his humiliated shame, especially in the days after he’d sucked them off, is drowned out by the warmth of the person’s body. His focus is drawn to their interlocked hands when they rub their thumb against his. Their index finger scratches his knuckle lightly, and Suzuki reads it as his cue to do something; anything. He ponders what he should do—what would they like? What would please them the most? Should he speak again? Do they even understand him? No, yes, of course they understand… He’s afraid. What if they don’t like it? Should he just be quiet and—

Another scratch to his knuckle, this time more forceful. It clicks the pieces together.

_They don’t like it when I hide myself._

Suzuki sucks in a quick, scared breath, then slides his right hand from their shirt, splaying it on his bed. He takes a second to steady himself, but he doesn’t hesitate. In one far-from-smooth motion, he uses his hand as leverage to hoist his body upwards, doing his best to avoid hitting their chin. The blanket slides off his shoulders and pools at his middle. The arm around his waist graciously releases enough pressure to let him move, taking the opportunity to cup his butt with their hand. He doesn’t miss the ass squeeze they give him, but he ignores it for the sake of his sanity. His left hand, still interlaced with their right, shakes unsteadily once he’s on his knees, but they’re able to hold his weight. He marvels at their unwavering strength. However, his right hand isn’t nearly as good of a support, and Suzuki falters. He very nearly falls on top of them. He’s only able to catch himself by grappling onto their shoulder out of reflex, his body leaning all of its weight onto their body; yet, somehow, the person doesn’t even budge. Suzuki’s not sure whether he should be scared or aroused by the hardness of their body.

For some stupid reason, the [El Dorado _both; both is good_](http://www.reactiongifs.com/r/bth.gif) meme reiterates itself in his head, and he can’t stop the puff of laughter that escapes him. It momentarily gives him a sense of courage.

He runs with it.

Using just his sense of touch and intuition, he wiggles downwards and leans forward, seeking the person’s ear. He can only hope he’s estimating its position correctly. The hand on his butt rubs him through his thin cotton pajamas encouragingly, if not a bit impatiently. Suzuki doesn’t have time to let himself think. He opens his mouth and hopes that whatever comes out is enough to express how much he _needs_ them:

**_“Let me please you.”_ **

The person stills. Even the hand interlaced with his seems to freeze, ceasing its subtle motions. For a long few seconds, Suzuki’s halfway panicking and rethinking his life choices. His words had come out much breathier than he’d intended, sounding more like a whimper than the seductive whisper-esque type of aesthetic he was going for.

He loses his spark of bravery and his hand unceremoniously slips on the fabric of their shirt. He more or less collapses on top of them, letting out a quiet, rather feminine sound of surprise. He feels his breath hit something very close, and he _knows_ it was the person’s ear; he just _knows_ by the way the fingers cupping his ass twitch, and suddenly he’s assaulted by memories of fingers twitching in his hair and heavy flesh on his tongue; tears in his eyes and wetness in his pants; pleasure pleasure pleasure so much _pleasure;_ and he’s hit with such indescribable heat that a sharp spike of a remnant orgasm burns in his urethra, and god _he needs it he needs it he needs it—_ so without thinking, or perhaps it was on instinct, he squirms further downwards to arch his back; a long and faint, begging whine escaping his throat, sounding very close to the word _please_

_Please please please_

A growl rips through the air, and suddenly the hand on his ass disappears. Suspended in motion, he registers the surreal sensation of a change in temperature—what happened to the blanket?—before he’s yanked downwards by the wrist. He lands on top of the person’s body, which rolled over to lay on its back, his left hand still gripped by theirs almost painfully. When his right wrist is released, his hand catches itself on the bed. He tries to prop himself up out of reflex, but their free hand snakes behind his neck and forcefully pulls him back down. His arm falters with the movement and ends up flat, bent at the elbow. He fearfully curls his fingers into his bed sheets, unable to tell if they are upset. He’s still disoriented by all the movement when the hand around his neck shifts, turning his head slightly to the side. A mouth brushes against the shell of his ear.

The feeling paralyzes his body. He sucks in a breath and holds it.

“...Hn!..” A small squeak leaks from the back of his throat when they purposely blow into his ear. They’re clearly delighted by his reaction, if the low chuckle and teasing rub to the nape of his neck is anything to go by. Suzuki flushes in embarrassment, and he’s about to try and pull away, flexing the fingers held by their hand to unlace them, when a warning scratch to the indent of his nape instantly turns his body into mush. His body traitorously loses its tension, and he falls back on top of them. A pleased purr accompanies the caress of the back of his neck, and Suzuki shivers in pleasure despite himself. For a split second, he feels complete and utter humiliation because they’re _laughing_ at him again, but then a deep and foreign sound rumbles next to his ear, and _oh—_

 _“Good,”_ Their voice is rough and gravelly, as if worn down from lack of use, and there’s a distinct accent in the way they speak, but he can’t place it; there’s a missing enunciation on the hard ending of the word, trailing off with just a breathy growl, but Suzuki _knows_ what they said; it sings in his blood and in his soul and Suzuki breathes an intoxicated “yes” in response because he’s been good, he’s been good yes yes yes—he almost orgasms with the elation he feels, head spinning with the praise. He feels them exhale in amusement through their nose, a puff of air tickling the tip of his ear. Suzuki calms down just a bit and blushes shyly, but this time there’s no overwhelming urge to bury himself in a hole and die. Instead, he can’t stop smiling! They held his hand and _spoke_ to him! He shouldn’t feel this happy, he knows, but it can’t be hel—

His center of gravity shifts as he’s abruptly flipped onto his back. His head hits the fluffed up pillow with a _fwump_ and he blinks in shocked confusion. They’re still holding his hand, so he’s kind of able to guess where they are; he can also feel their large frame loom over his smaller one as they sit upright, and he instinctively shrinks into the bed. Lost, his right hand looks for something to hold onto and settles for the bed sheets.

The fingers that hold his left hand flex, clearly trying to pull away. Suzuki panics and tightens his hold instead—why? I don’t want to let go—but a squeeze to his hand subdues him before he can go into a full on breakdown. He hears a rustling of fabric and feels something move closer to him, but it’s not until a gentle kiss is placed on his forehead that he realizes they were leaning down to reach his head. A little touched but still reluctant, Suzuki loosens his hold. The instant their hand untwines from his, though, he shoots out to grab their wrist just in case they decide to disappear. A calm, placating hand eases him away. Suzuki lets go but bites his bottom lip in worry, and their right hand presses an index finger into his lips as a light scolding. It causes his cheek to turn to face the person’s body.

Suzuki promptly opens his mouth and sucks the finger in past the joint, licking at it playfully. He’s able to hear their amused huff as they flex their index finger’s first knuckle in his mouth. The sound reminds him of their voice, and he gives the finger a suckle as a pulse of arousal resonates within him. The person sits back upright, but they let him have the finger. They guide his left hand, which had fallen to the sheets, to his belly. They cover his hand with their own, pressing it down onto his own stomach in a clear command to stay. He obeys without a second thought and even brings his right hand to rest on top of his left, lacing them together. They give his mouth their middle finger as a reward, and Suzuki excitedly takes it in. Their fingers are thick and warm in his mouth. He runs his tongue over the extremities, reveling in the way the folds of their skin massage his raw taste buds.

He feels their left hand ghost at his clavicle then trail down to his clothed chest. Suzuki pauses his tongue’s movement, resting the appendage underneath the pads of their fingers, and focuses on their left hand in curiosity.

Seemingly put off by the lack of massage, their fingers press down onto his tongue, digging it into his bottom teeth. Suzuki swallows around the fingers in surprise, but that only seems to excite them further because they push their fingers in until his lips touch the second knuckle of their fingers. He moans lowly, pushing his tongue between them. They give him an approving hum and an accompanying scratch on his tongue. His hands threaten to leave their places on his stomach to touch his penis, but he keeps them grounded. He wants to be good. An oddly warm sensation fills his heart, and he can feel them smile at him in the dark, but it’s such an unusual feeling that he writes it off as his imagination. He’s so distracted by the fingers in his mouth that he doesn’t even register the pattern being traced into his shirt.

The blast of cold air is impossible to miss, though.

His hands, which were comfortably placed on top of his belly, are shocked by bare skin as his shirt disappears. There’s a dissonance between the urge to cover his exposed chest and the urge to stay in obedience, and Suzuki’s thrown into a state of confusion. He furrows his brows and licks one of the fingers in his mouth, looking to them for comfort. An apologetic hand is placed on top of his fingers in response, soothing its thumb across his knuckles. Suzuki doesn’t realize that his body is tense and shivering until it relaxes from their hand.

The thumb belonging to the hand in his mouth rubs against the underside of his chin as a signal. He’s unsure what it’s for until the person begins to gently ease their fingers out of his mouth. He gives them a farewell suck just to make sure their fingers don’t come out too wet. Once out of his mouth, a trail of saliva connects his lips to the tips of their fingers, and he can feel it snap to cool on his lips. Suzuki licks his lips to warm them again, sorely missing their fingers already.

A cold, moist finger pad touches his right nipple, and he jolts, letting out a soft noise. Goose-flesh rises up on his body, and he shivers from both pleasure and cold. His nipple perks up immediately. Their index finger teases the pink little nub, rubbing it to the left then to the right, then up and down, sending low thrums of pleasure to his crotch that make him squirm. They roll it in a small circle before another wet finger joins in to clasp it. They rub it back and forth between their two fingers, twisting it. 

“Hn…” The two fingers pinch and pull his pretty little nipple upwards, stretching the skin. Suzuki feels his legs spread automatically as his hips jerk, begging for more. He hears an exhale from their nose, ending off in an amused hum. They give him another pull, then replaces their middle finger with a warm and dry thumb. It has much more friction and stimulates his nipple almost painfully. His own fingers, resting painstakingly on his belly, dig into his skin as a substitute for reaching down into his pants. He’s _aching._ He could come from just the small touches on his chest, but he wants _more;_ he wants them to mercilessly milk him with their hands, fuck his throat until he’s choking on cum, spread him wide open, mess him up deep inside—he just wants _something!—_

Suddenly, the roar of the garage opening jolts him from his haze. The fingers teasing his nipple pause, and an almost surprised huff sounds from above him. A chilling mixture of dread, fear, and disappointment drops like lead in his stomach, but it’s not from the thought of being discovered nor is it from the embarrassment of exposing his deepest fears; it’s from the thought of stopping. Are they going to leave him here, begging and throbbing? They aren’t going to fuck him? There’s no way they’d come in the time it takes for his parents to enter the room… is it his fault? The niggling sense of worry explodes into anxiety. It’s his fault, isn’t it? He’s the one who—

A scratch to his nipple that pops the index finger off the nub makes him flinch, a sound of pleasure escaping him as it unexpectedly sends a shock to his arousal. It seems to surprise the person as well, and their finger stills. It stays unmoving for about three seconds. The silence is filled by the rackety sounds of the garage.

_Scratch._

Even though he’s fully expecting the sensation, a quiet noise still leaks from his throat. Suzuki flushes. A decidedly dark chuckle rumbles from the person’s chest at the same time he hears the garage door swing open, and the bolt of arousal that makes his cock twitch in his pants is chased by a chill of fear.

They have no intention of stopping.

They give his nipple a tug upwards as a reward, almost like they were saying _bingo, you hit the nail on the head._ Suzuki trains his ears on the sounds of his parents, trying to concentrate. It proves to be quite difficult when the person seems to have taken a liking to his nipples. Their fingers switch over to his left nipple, rubbing and teasing at it with just their index finger. He hears the familiar rustling of plastic bags underneath the chitter of his parents’ Japanese and deduces that they must have went shopping. The person pinches his nipple playfully between their thumb and index finger. Suzuki digs his nails into the skin of his belly as the sound of crinkling bags passes the corridor of bedrooms, holding his breath.

 _Scratch._ “Nn!”

The person tugs the small nub upwards, stretching the skin, then releases it. It’s such a minor yet encompassing sensation that it’s _not fair!_ He squirms underneath their hands. They frustratingly roll his nipple between the pads of their index and thumb in response, and he can feel that same _smirk_ taunt him playfully in the dark. Suzuki’s able to catch the words _“anmitsu”_ and _“gift”_ before another scratch blanks his mind. He can’t even describe the relief he feels when he hears the click of the kitchen’s ventilation system, something that automatically comes on when the lights do. He hopes that his parents don’t come in until they’re done cooking.

He feels a squeeze to the hands on his belly. They give him one last rub to his nipple with their index finger before both of their hands pull away. Suzuki reacts instantly, turning to his side and grasping onto their thigh—why? You’re leaving? Please don’t—and he’s panicking for the eightieth time that day before he’s suddenly being scooped up into their arms. Shocked, he releases the fabric of their pants and lets himself be maneuvered into their lap. The bed creaks as they move to sit with their legs stretched out in the spot where he’d been laying down. He ends up gripping both hands onto the person’s shirt—it’s smooth and thin, like their pants; silk?—as he’s sat sideways with his head on their collarbone. Their left arm curves behind his back, supporting him, their hand resting on his chest. The position makes him feel a bit like a child, his butt falling into the pit of their lap with his inability to support himself upright. He tilts his head downwards into his chest, slightly embarrassed. They press a loving kiss to the top of his head that makes his heart stutter a little, and he relaxes into their hold.

He feels their right hand trail upwards from his clothed shin to his thigh, and he tenses in anticipation. The subtle movement of his body causes him to rub against the prominent bulge in their pants—it’s definitely silk—and he twitches in his pants. There’s a noticeable curve to the person’s lips when they give his head another kiss. He gasps softly when their fingers press into his inner thigh, and he spreads his legs just a bit to give them access. The thin fabric of their pants isn’t enough to hide the pulsing heat of their arousal, and he squirms at the sensation.

From the kitchen, a loud clang of metal pans has him jumping in their lap, tightening his grip on their clothing. Their right hand settles on his crotch, easing him, but the heat of their hand only makes him whine needily. He doesn’t miss the twitch of their cock against his butt. He tries his best to rut against their palm, searching for friction, which in turn grinds his body against them. They cup their hand around his bulge, rubbing their thumb into it approvingly. Faint, pleased noises spill from his lips. The person slides their left arm upwards to sit him further upright, letting their hand snake underneath his arm to the furthest nipple. They graze it with the tips of their fingers, sending shivers up his spine.

It feels good, but it’s not enough. Suzuki releases his left hand from their shirt to reach for his aching penis in his pants, but a warning scratch next to his nipple quickly banishes the thought. He lets out a confused whimper, unsure of how to tell them he wants more. He turns his head to press his nose into the person’s chest, hoping it’s enough to gain their favor, but it isn’t. They only trace the outline of his cock with their index finger, smirking into his hair. Suzuki mewls pitifully, writhing in desperation.

He needs it—he knows how good it feels; he knows what it’s like, and his hole clenches around air; he _wants_ it; he wants them to take him against his will, give it to him until he’s begging for mercy—and now he’s worked himself up even more. He pants helplessly, squeezing his legs together, racking his brain. What do they want him to do? He hears another clang from the kitchen, but it’s the least of his worries now. He just wants to _cum!_

The person chuckles into his hair, and it’s a deep, purring noise. A memory of their voice weaves itself into the forefront of his mind, and he has half the mind to figure out what they want from him, the other half busy remembering how it felt to get impaled by a thick cock.

“Please?” His voice is breathy and needy. They pull him closer with their left arm, humming teasingly into his hair. The sound makes him even more desperate. He tilts his chin upwards, opening himself up and spreading his legs wide, begging for anything they’re willing to give. They slide their right hand to the elastic band of his pajamas, and Suzuki holds his breath. Their thumb and index finger slip beneath the band, frustratingly close to his crotch. After he squirms a little, their thumb slides underneath his underwear, touching bare skin, but their index finger remains outside. The person rubs the fabric of his underwear between their two fingers, but doesn’t do anything else.

“...More, please..!” He begs with more conviction. Their bulge pulses beneath his body, and a pleased hum travels from their throat to his crotch. He feels their middle finger brush a familiar pattern into his pants.

His thoughts run a mile a minute in the duration of the pattern, wondering about what they’re going to _do_ to him—are they going to give it to him nice and deep? Breach him with their cock all at once, or inch into him like they did the first night they fucked him? Will they stop once his parents turn the knob of that door, or press him down into the mattress with their weight and hide the two of them underneath a blanket? He’s going to have to keep quiet, isn’t he? He’ll have to keep quiet when semen is forced from his cock while he orgasms over and over. They’ll have to stretch him out with their thick fingers before they can even think about spearing him with their cock, though; it’s been too long since he’s even attempted fingering himself. He squeezes his legs together when a wave of pleasure makes him leak pre-cum. He hasn’t felt it in so long; he can’t wait until that spot inside him gets pounded and ground against by their fingers, their cock, _anything_ as long as it’s _them._ Is he even going to be able to keep quiet? They’ll have to force him quiet, then; shove his face into the sheets or cover his mouth with their hand. God, he wants it, he fucking _needs it—_

A violent crash, accompanied by his mother’s surprised yelp, sends a bolt of shock through his body. He goes ramrod straight for half a second before his entire lower half is exposed to cold air, and he gasps, scrambling to cover himself. Once again, he’s thrown into a state of confusion. A warm, steady hand holds down his knees, which were trying to draw up to his chest. It snakes between his legs and caresses a piece of skin that’s very, very close to his leaking cock. A wave of heat warms his shocked body, and his legs part open once more.

From the kitchen, he can hear his father’s worried mumbles and his mother’s reassurances. He’s too distracted by the finger hovering just above his tip to really care about what happened though. One little thrust upwards and their finger would finally touch him directly, but they pull their finger away just as he has that thought. Feeling both desperate and brave, Suzuki slides his hands from their shirt to wrap his arms around their neck. It gives him leverage to scoot his butt back onto their thigh, and the new position lets him sit up straighter of his own accord. Their right hand rests on his thighs, close enough to radiate heat to his cock, while their left hand slides down to hold him by the waist. Suzuki leans shamelessly onto their body, tilting his head to the direction he thinks their ear is.

“Touch me,” he whispers. God, does he actually sound like that? He sounds like he’s going to cry and orgasm at the same time, which is normal for him at least, but… his voice is so wrecked, and they haven’t even properly touched him yet! There’s a loud _tack tack tack_ from his mother banging a spoon against a wooden bowl. Fuck, he’s so fucking desperate; his parents are going to come in soon; he just—why aren’t they just _taking_ him already; they’re right there, and so is their cock; they could just press it right against his tight little pucker and he’ll take it, he’ll be good; he—he can’t do this anymore!

_PLEASE_

“Fucking touch me!” He snaps, distressed tears welling up in his eyes. His voice came out a bit too loud in the quiet room, but he doesn’t care. His parents are halfway deaf anyway. He spreads his legs as wide as he can without compromising his position, ignoring the hand trying to pacify him by caressing his thighs.  He leans his weight on the person’s shoulder, withdrawing his right hand from behind their neck to grab at their right wrist. He forcefully pulls it down to have their hand touch his sorely neglected penis, and he whines with gratification when they wrap their hand around his shaft obligingly. With its mission accomplished, his hand releases their wrist and returns to its previous position wrapped around their neck.

He feels their head turn towards his, and they give his tip an apologetic rub. Suzuki jerks and almost comes from that alone, but he reigns it in, trembling in their lap. He hears a soft, soothing humming sound next to his ear, and it takes him a while to realize that it’s coming from the person’s throat. Then, he realizes that he’s sniffling: quiet and frail sounds that fill the room, intermixed with hiccups. He flushes in frustrated embarrassment.

He shifts to bring his right hand to his face, intending to wipe his eyes. However, the person leans their weight downwards, using it to lower his back down onto the bed. Suzuki’s hand grips onto their shoulder in surprise, feeling their left hand trail up from his waist to the middle of his back. The hand around his shaft remains a gentle reminder, giving him a little squeeze and jerk once his head hits the pillow with a _pomf._ He gasps at the spike of pleasure and spreads his legs instinctively, feeling the person’s knees go between his thighs. They hover over him, and Suzuki finds more comfort in their dominance than he should. He wraps his arms around their neck again, unwilling to let go even though he barely has the strength to keep his arms upright. It becomes less of a strain when they lower themselves to kiss his forehead. Wetness slips out of his eyes involuntarily—why is he even crying again?—and he feels a hand carefully cup his left cheek.

The person shifts their body downwards, gently wiping his eye with their thumb. He can feel how close their face is to his. Suzuki turns into their hand, a little embarrassed, but they nudge his head straight.

Something touches his lips. The sensation is so fleeting that he’s not quite sure how to respond, nor does he know what it is. It isn’t their thumb, since he could still feel it massaging his eyes, but what else could it be?

It touches him again. This time, though, it’s followed by the distinct feeling of a wet tongue swiping against his bottom lip. Suzuki opens his mouth in shock, and the person steals his lips without hesitation, taking advantage of his reaction by slipping their tongue into his mouth. At the same time, the hand around his cock smears cold pre-cum all around his glans with its thumb, and he mewls. The sound is consumed by their mouth, and he can feel their lips curve as he desperately pulls them closer. Their tongue is calm and easy, guiding his inexperience with slow movements.

Suzuki can’t breathe. Their tongue teases him playfully, dancing around the shock-still appendage in the middle of his mouth every few seconds as they curiously explore his cavern. He doesn’t really know what to do except to tilt his head to the side to grant them better access, so he does just that. As a reward, they start to slowly jerk his cock up-and-down, giving his crown a rub on every downward motion.

It feels so _good._

His toes curl a little with every interval, and his knees bend a bit as he spreads his legs out. Their tongue licks at his, encouraging him to play, and he tentatively licks it back. The person smiles, pressing forward. Their thumb then swipes across his slit and Suzuki falters, tightening every muscle in his body to stave off the teetering edge of orgasm. His legs squeeze together as close as they can only to be kept apart by the knees between his thighs. He gasps as they swipe over his slit again, a delayed shock wave of pleasure causing him to spasm. Saliva trickles out of the corner of his mouth as he arches his back, hips jerking, but he doesn’t orgasm. His fingers unlace to grip at their shoulders, pushing them away out of reflex, but they don’t budge.

Instead, the person impishly tugs on his bottom lip with their teeth and pulls away just slightly, as if saying _oh really now?_ _Want me to stop?_ Suzuki, of course, chases them with a needy tongue— _no Sir—_ and they meet his mouth with a hearty chuckle.

He faintly realizes that he’d said that out loud. Before he’s able to even be embarrassed, however, he hears voices that are strikingly clear and familiar. Suzuki freezes. His parents are right outside the door!

 _“Well, is he asleep?”_ His mother’s voice asks. There’s a grunt from his father. His cock twitches in their hand. The person smirks knowingly into his mouth and laps at his lips. Suzuki fights a one-sided battle of modesty and arousal, fear coursing through his veins even as his hips gyrate into their hand, until he shamefully returns their sloppy kiss, clumsily sucking and playing with their tongue. They let him move as he pleases, seeming to enjoy his enthusiasm and returning it with leisure licks, their lips still curved.

Every wet _schlip_ of tongue that permeates the room sends blows of pleasure to his cock, and his mind is plagued with memories of squelching noises from getting pounded; sticky spurts of cum in his pants; brutal and continuous _rubbing_ on his sweet spot; women’s laughter and his parents’ breathing; fuck oh _fuck_ he’s so close!

His hole quivers and clenches as he fucks into their hand, erratic and desperate thrusts rustling the bedsheets just slightly. There’s a deep longing inside his gut, and he does his best to imagine their ribbed cock inside of him, taking its pleasure in all the right ways. He kisses them messily, panting and whining, and he hopes that his parents can’t hear.

 _“Should we just get the flashlight from the car?”_ His mother asks. There’s a crinkling of a plastic bag. Suzuki feels the person’s hand tighten around his cock. The calloused skin of their palm catches and rubs at the protruding crown of his shaft with every movement, and his thrusts become more frenzied. There’s an audible, irregular _shlickshlickshlick_ as his hips cant back and forth, and it only serves to heighten his arousal. It reminds him of when they’d forced orgasm after orgasm from him, making him squirt and beg and babble like a child.

Suddenly, a horribly familiar metallic squeak—the doorknob!—turns in the air, but the door doesn’t open. Astonishingly, his breathy moans go up an octave, his toes curling and he’s going to cum, oh god he’s going to _cum—_ the person just hums in interest into his mouth, and _fuck_ he needs—just a small touch please please—they pull back from his lips with a smack, and Suzuki feels himself drool; they’re purposely keeping their hand still so he doesn’t cum— _“I don’t want to wake the poor boy up.”_

There’s a beat of silence, filled by the wet sounds of his dripping cock desperately fucking their hand, then:

 _“I’ll keep the lights off,”_ his father says, and several things happen at once. The door swings open, and Suzuki’s breath hitches in absolute terror. His entire body stiffens, hands gripping the person’s biceps, cock twitching with remnants of pleasure. He watches the obscure silhouette of his father take three steps into the room, and he’s so thankful there’s no light in the corridor or else he’d be discovered.

He’s so absolutely sure that the person will wait until his father is gone from the room that he doesn’t think much of the hand that moves to cover his mouth. But then they tease his frenulum with their nail, and Suzuki realizes—waitwaitno _pleasewai—_ they forcibly press their palm against his mouth and drags their nail to his slit, digging and scratching into his urethra— _GOD—_ his eyes roll back as he spasms uncontrollably underneath their hand, an intense orgasm racking his body, thick ropes of cum spurting against the thumb pad plugging him up, and he’s nearly convulsing; his toes curl painfully and his legs squeeze together, his back arches and his arms contract. He hears his father mumble something underneath his breath. Suzuki chokes on saliva when he tries to swallow, tears welling up in his eyes, but the hand only strengthens its crushing force on his mouth, keeping his father none the wiser of his son’s orgasm.

He almost sobs when their thumb grinds into his slit, a dirty _squish_ sounding out into the relatively quiet room, but his father doesn’t hear. A secondary orgasm forces its way through his urethra— _can’tpleasenomore—_ and his father is right there, he’s awake, can hear his son cum all over himself, see him—and then they smear his ejaculate all over the head of his cock, rubbing it into him in quick circles, and Suzuki hazes out from a crash of pleasure as his cock violently forces out runny liquid, eyes fluttering as his vision dots with stars.

The person stops there, letting him ride out his orgasms, watching him squirt all over his chest but keeping their hand around his cock. Suzuki shudders uncontrollably, hips jerking with every surge of ejaculate. Every jerk thrusts his cock into their hand, and he’s stuck in a loop of unyielding pleasure. It’s a miracle his father doesn’t hear the squelching noises the movements make, a rather audible _shlikt shlikt schlop_ deafening to his own ears. The hand on his mouth does a good job of keeping him quiet, but his faint cries could be heard behind their hand if someone were to actively listen for it. His father meanders around the room, dangerously close to his son’s spasming body, until he snatches something off a nightstand with a grunt.

 _“I got it.”_ And the door slams shut. His parents’ footsteps carry away from the room. His mother says something about closing the door less aggressively.

The hand is removed from his mouth. Now able to breathe, Suzuki takes small, hiccuping breaths, twitching with the aftershocks of all his orgasms. His urethra burns with painful pleasure, keeping him teetering on the edge of overstimulation and climax. He wonders how he must look: legs spread like a whore, pretty little hole clenching and quivering around empty air, fluid all over his chest, cock limp and glistening, eyes half-lidded and hazy. He can’t even think straight. His thoughts swirl with both arousal and satisfaction, yet his body sinks into the bed with exhaustion.

The person hums appreciatively at the sight. Suzuki can _feel_ their eyes raking over his form, and his tired arousal gives an interested stir. A chuckle carries to his ears. Suzuki’s too fucked out to really care about trivial things like modesty. High off of his orgasms, he spreads his legs further and bares his throat for them to see.

_Yours_

There’s a slow, shuddering inhale of breath. The person seems to take up his offering and squeezes his shaft with their hand. He arches his back imperceptibly, opening himself wider. Then, they rub their thumb deliberately on the side of his glans, massaging his fluid into the skin, testing the waters. Suzuki mewls in surprise, gyrating into the sensation involuntarily, too tired to lift his hips upwards. He closes his mouth and swallows, scarcely noticing the trail of drool running from the corner of his mouth to his chin. His mouth opens in a pant as the person begins to comfortably jerk him off with a tight fist.

Two fingers press into his bottom lip. Immediately, he offers up his mouth, coaxing the fingers in with his tongue. They slide in appreciatively, and Suzuki sucks on them until they’re all the way in his mouth, his lips curling around their second knuckle. Their thumb gives his glans a rewarding scratch, lubed up by his wet ejaculate. His hips jerk, and a dollop of pre-cum—or maybe cum; he can’t really tell anymore—oozes from his slit. He spreads his legs as wide as he can, milking the pleasure for what it’s worth without shame, grinding his hips into their hand. He faintly notices that he’s making pitiful noises around their fingers.

He laps at the fingers in his mouth and unabashedly enjoys it. The slow _shlick, shlick, shlick_ of his cock is barely audible above the much closer sounds of his wet sucking and licking. His left hand slides from their right bicep down to his chest, and he dazedly pinches his right nipple. A dull spike of pleasure makes him moan. He doesn’t hear the shuddering breath that comes from the person as he moves his hips in tandem with the twisting of his nipple. It feels so _good._ They give him a very appreciative rub to his slit, and his hips jerk again. He whines and gives his nub a little scratch, mimicking what the person had done earlier. He doesn’t see them lick their lips and swallow.

The hand around his cock ups its intensity, twisting up and down with greater purpose. Suzuki tries his best to match their rhythm with his hips, but his attempt is erratic at best. The resulting sound is a strange _shlick squish shlick shlick squish_ that resonates into the air. He only vaguely registers it in his hazed mind. He struggles to breathe around their fingers as they massage his tongue. On one movement downwards, their thumb digs its nail into his slit, making his hips jerk and his cock spurt a small amount of liquid, then turns its nail sideways like a key before scratching down to the middle of his shaft.

With that, Suzuki lets out a high-pitched keen around their fingers, some saliva dribbling out of his mouth, and his eyes roll back with the force of his orgasm. Liquid gushes from his slit with an obscene _splurt_ that’s audible in the quiet room, splashing onto his belly and dripping onto the bed; His body writhes and convulses for half a minute, feet going up in the air as his legs try to slam shut reflexively, toes curling. They rub his frenulum through his orgasm, thoroughly milking him, and meek noises escape his throat as he’s helplessly subjected to their ministrations, biting down on their fingers without meaning to. The person takes it in a stride, seeming to enjoy the way he’s spasming.

Their fingers soon slip from his mouth, and Suzuki’s gasps for breath and hiccuped whimpers can be heard with every _shlick_ of his cock. They continue to tease various sensitive areas, pulling frail noises from his lips. They run their nail underneath his protruding head, pinch his tip between with their index and thumb, and dig into his urethra with varying degrees of success. Throughout it all, Suzuki jerks and twitches as liquid oozes from his slit, trembling from continuous stimulation. The person continues to touch him until he reaches down with his left hand, weakly pushing them away.

Mercifully, they let him go. His hand falls to the bed, gripping the sheets as he tries to ground himself, his mind fucked out. He remains wide open and exposed with his knees spread apart. After several minutes of trying to get his legs to stop shaking and chasing after aftershocks of his orgasm, he hears them swallow audibly. His interest piques. He can feel their eyes on him again, and he wonders how he must look like _now_ compared to earlier.

Before long, his breathing evens out. His eyes threaten to fall closed. He feels them shift, then a very _wet_ hand touches his left. It lifts his hand and laces its fingers with his, and he can’t help the dazed smile that graces his face. He blinks his eyes up at what he hopes to be their face, then says, in a soft, broken voice:

“Kiss, please…”

Their cleaner left hand cups his cheek, and he feels a puff of air before their lips touch his. They take him sweetly, licking into the cavern of his mouth with leisure. Suzuki tries his best to match their rhythm and shuts his eyes. He remembers to breathe through his nose. This time, he makes sure to savor the slightly sweet taste of their mouth. His attention focuses in on their interlocked hands when they brush their thumb against his, leaving a rather sticky trail. He tentatively pokes his tongue into their mouth, unsure of what to do but wanting more, and they squeeze his hand encouragingly. He’s guided by their tongue into their mouth, and he ventures forward with careful curiosity.

His tongue grazes something sharp at the top of their mouth, and he pauses. He runs over it again, then realizes that it’s their tooth. Fascinated, Suzuki presses his tongue up against it. It digs a bit painfully into the appendage and even draws a little blood, but he’s so awed that he doesn’t really mind it. He doesn’t notice their fingers twitch on his cheek. He forgets his earlier caution and swipes into their mouth, surveying every tooth he can find. He soon finds out that not all of their teeth are as sharpened as their two canines, which is what he’d initially encountered, but are still relatively _inhuman._

Vampire?

A very amused chuckle reminds him that he’s literally kissing somebody, and he flushes, retracting his tongue back into his mouth. Somehow, the embarrassment he feels is not nearly as debilitating as it had been earlier. Their tongue licks at some of his teeth, playfully mocking him, and Suzuki giggles dumbly into their mouth. They pull back slightly to give his bottom lip a little tug, then kisses him one last time before pulling back completely. A trail of saliva connects them together.

He doesn’t complain this time, thoroughly satisfied. Their thumb strokes his cheek and lovingly caresses his wet lips. He metaphorically purrs and tilts his head into their hand. For the first time in several weeks, there’s no gnawing sense of dread that encompasses his mind, and there’s a sated carnal desire in his gut.

“Thank you,” he murmurs sleepily, not really thinking about it. An amused huff of laughter is the last thing he hears before he promptly falls sound asleep at **10:42 PM.** His parents come into the room not even 20 minutes later, but by then he’s already properly cleaned up and tucked in. The smell of jasmine is much stronger than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah that’s about as vanilla as i can get haha. and yes, that's an actual ceiling tile of the mona lisa. 
> 
> i promise i’ll rank up the explicit rating later. poor boy just needs to have his feelings sorted out first. much love and until next time!


	2. marathon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Suzuki finally comes to terms with his situation after crying his heart out (again)... then gets driven to the ground trying to keep quiet in a room of four kids as he gets milked (again).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by literally 3-4 lines in Emeka's "it shouldn't have happened" (chapter 2), MissterMaia's "Movie Night", and all the other lovely works that incorporated this kink of mine.
> 
> notable tags in this chapter: multiple orgasms, ahegao, minor begging, praise kink, kissing, anal fingering, minor edging, squirting, dissociation, hurt/comfort, fear of discovery, prostate massage
> 
> porn begins at 2:42 PM (ctrl + F, or find in page if you're on mobile)

**8:48 AM Saturday**

The opened blinds and half-drawn curtains of the window allow rays of light to stream into the room, warming Suzuki’s sight and casting a stage for specks of dust to dance. He reaches out, watching dazedly in awe as the dust sweeps and swirls around his hand. His skin glimmers with each flex of his fingers, the glossiness of his knuckles reflecting flashes of light into his eyes. Dots of dust kiss his skin when they venture close enough to touch. He brings his hands to the side to block the sun from his view, a gentle sweeping motion that sends the dust into a frenzied, panicked whirling. With time, they settle and float as the light weaves between his splayed fingers, shining through his stretched skin in a hot, orange hue. He closes the distance between his fingers and watches the light slip through in a glowing red tint. The tips of his finger nails become an opaque white and his nail beds a rosy pink.

From outside the room, down the corridor, he hears the murmurings of his mother and father like an old fan in the comfort of a love-worn room. He can just barely pick out their individual voices from the blend of sound in his mind. Birds chirp over the distant sounds of barking dogs. His neighbor’s lawn mower drones on and on, muffled by window glass.

Altogether, it’s a comforting melody.

Suzuki tilts his head to the side, thin strands of black, sleep-mussed hair falling to rest on his cheek. The bright mass of light that peeks at him from behind his hand is but a blinding blur, yet he finds himself in a trance all the same. It lulls him into reminiscing of the summer afternoons he’d spent gazing at transcending stairs of dust particles, floating aimlessly in a single beam of light shining from a small window above the front door. Back then, as a child, he’d regularly sit on the armrest of his family’s raggedy ornate couch in the living room, face away from the _kamidana_ that hung five and a half feet from the floor, and pass hours in silence every morning.

There’s just something about the dust, really, that makes him awestruck and wide-eyed, unable to look away.

Suzuki brings his hand back and touches his lips, the nails of his index, middle, and ring fingers catching at his cupid’s bow. A giddy warmth spreads through his belly as he remembers the feeling of soft, smiling lips pressed against his. The warmth spreads to his face as a light dusting of pink, heating the apples of his cheeks. A small but happy smile pulls at his lips, and he has to shyly avert his eyes to the side to reign in his excitement.

 _\- - - - - -_!

The sound of fast-approaching footsteps snaps him from his dazed state. He swings his left leg off his bed from beneath the blanket, a jarring creak of bed springs accompanying the movement. Faint arousal teases at his conscious at the sound, but he shuts it down immediately. His already upright position lends him precious seconds to school his expression before the bedroom door swings open. Everything suddenly becomes much louder, and the scent of paint wafts into the room, scrunching his nose.

His mother stands on the other side of the entryway. The palm of her hand spreads itself flat on the white bedroom door, arm straight and commanding. Suzuki blinks at her innocently, leaning forward to feign getting out of bed.

 _“Get up, please. Your aunt will be here soon.”_ Her voice is clear of any suspicion, but Suzuki catches her glance around the room from the corner of his eyes as he wordlessly slides off the bed. Out of habit he clasps his hands together and stretches out his lithe body, biting down the sound of morning awakeness that escapes his throat.

The warmth of his clasped hands triggers a memory, and the same giddy smile from earlier threatens to show on his face. Fortunately, his mother doesn’t seem to notice. He quickly makes his way over to the bathroom, passing by her without a glance. He’ll say good morning to her after he’s freshened up. From behind him, she turns and leaves, her sagging footsteps trailing back into the corridor.

 

**9:54 AM**

Suzuki twists the knob to gently shut the door, his other hand flipping the light switch. Dark yellow light floods the bathroom. He turns towards the mirror, stands with his hands loosely at his sides, and stares at his reflection for approximately 4 seconds. There’s a drool stain on the corner of his mouth, pale white and barely noticeable on his skin. His eyes are eyes bright and wide, a slight hooded look only attributed to a good night’s sleep; clothes rumpled, wrinkled, and sleep-worn; hair not much better.

His eyes flit downwards.

He brings his fingers to caress his bottom lip, his index and middle finger brushing a ticklish trail to the right. He looks back up and meets the innocent, wide-eyed gaze of his reflection, sees how childlike and open the dark irises of his eyes are, and touches his fingertips to his lips again in wonder, his mouth parted. His lips are soft, dry, slightly chapped but still supple, a little puffy but not noticeable enough for alarm, healthy and pi—

I lost my first kiss

—and he flushes at the sudden thought, cheeks heating up embarrassingly fast. He hurriedly hides his face in his hands and resists the ridiculously strong urge to squeal. There’s a massive burst of bubbling energy in his chest, and he can’t stop the stupidly big grin that breaks across his face. He peeks through his fingers at the mirror, making eye contact with his own reflection, dumb and over-excited:

!!!

!!!!

!!!

!!!!!

The nonverbal exchange he has with his mirror sends another surge of hyper giddiness throughout his body. This time he turns away and can’t help the silent, breathy squeal that sounds a bit like a boiling teapot. Even a little giggle escapes him. He covers his eyes again, smiling wide, and squeezes his eyes shut behind his fingers as he remembers the person’s lips and their voice and their little laugh at his “American” joke and their fingers—a small niggle of arousal invades his bubble of innocence, but he ignores it—and the way they held his hand and their warm palms;

Suzuki marvels at everything that happened the night before, and there’s so much on his mind:

They can speak? Why do they insist on hiding their face? Why does their semen taste like the Fun Dip bars? Will they kiss him again? Are they going to contact him again? When? How soon? Why him? How often? Who are they? _What_ are they? Why didn’t they fuck him last night? What happened after? He doesn’t remember… but he woke up clean. They must be the one who keeps charging his phone and cleaning his bed; why? How? That means they’ve seen him…

Suzuki’s thoughts stutter and turn sharply down the gutter. He swallows a strange lump in his throat, then removes his hands from his face, cheeks flaming. He tries to settle down and gather his thoughts, fiddling with the edges of his shirt.

They’ve been watching him masturbate. Yes, he has ample evidence to prove that. As if on cue, memories of his _not_ cut-up clothing resurfaces to his mind, followed by his chargers, then his blankets, then his bed sheets. He’d say he’s embarrassed, but he knows how embarrassment feels and this isn’t anything like it. It’s more of a mix of fear and, oddly enough, _arousal._ He can’t tell whether or not he’s surprised. He _had_ been masturbating more enthusiastically whenever his mood was there, but this is the first time he’s thought of it so upfront.

Who would’ve thought he’d have a knack for exhibitionism? Voyeurism? He’s seen that stuff in both straight and experimental gay porn, but not once had they struck a chord of arousal in him. He never considered himself an avid fetishist. Even so, having sex while his parents are barely 7 feet away, getting aroused at the mere sound of his creaking bed springs, sucking—no, _deepthroating—_ a penis at school, orgasming while his father is within whispering distance of him… are those not tell-tale signs of a fetish? Is he—and in his stable mind he thinks this with little emotional distress—a pervert?

It’s not as if it’s the first time the thought has crossed his mind. He’s had plenty of time to think about his “situation,” but he’s still unsure exactly what, or how, he feels about himself. He knows what he’s doing is wrong—of course, his enjoyment is wrong in every sense of the word—yet he can’t bring himself to fully admit his perversion.

Is it really so bad, especially if he’s not harming anyone? Can he so easily distance himself from the dirty acts because the other person is a stranger? No, that’s not right; he doesn’t think they’re a stranger. He knows them, just not in the sense of a face or name; trusts them, perhaps more than any of his friends or even his parents; enjoys their presence, though they do not speak. It’s absurd, how willingly he fell into their arms. He can’t help but ask himself _why?_ Is it because he’s confident that nobody will find out? Was he so starved for someone to just give him their whole-hearted attention? Affection?

He doesn’t know. Somehow he’s not worried about it. What’s done is done. _It be like that sometimes,_ Julie’s voice echoes in his mind.

Suzuki blinks, then realizes that he’s standing in front of the mirror with a ridiculously serious look on his face. A sheepish smile bares his teeth, breaking the unintentional tension that lingered in the air like static. He steps forward and puts his hands on the counter—for what reason he’s not sure—and reaches for his toothbrush before a sudden thought slams into his mind:

—How is the person even doing it? Watching him. It’s not like he ever _sees_ them watching him, but he’s sure that they are. 100%. Are they invisible? He could see their hands that one time, though… and their penis—

Suzuki’s thoughts very nearly swerve into a ditch, and he squeezes his legs together as his hole twitches, letting out a shuddering breath. _Not good._ He ignores it as best as he can.

Maybe they’re just invisible when they want to be invisible? He’s seen a couple of _demon_ movies like that, but they’re not a demon, right?

...Right?

Suzuki chokes off that train of thought for the sake of his sanity. Another train arrives no later than a couple of milliseconds to replace it:

Then, why? There must be a reason they keep doing it, watching him silently. Not once have they joined in on his sessions, though he’d much appreciate it if they had. It would’ve made things a lot less painful for him, but alas... Are they planning to kill him?

No.

He strikes down the thought as soon as it comes. If they wanted to kill him, they’d have done it already. There would be no reason to clean him up, either. No reason to give him the kind of care they’ve already given. Then, do they just enjoy watching him?

His heart flutters at the thought.

Appeased, he resumes from his frozen stance and grabs his toothbrush. Now that he thinks about it, just like he can’t explain how they’ve been watching him, there are lots of other unexplained things he can’t wrap his head around. Memories of such things, some fuzzy and some arousingly vivid, run through his mind. He sorts through them with odd meticulousness and eventually settles on several theories:

First, and most likely the least shocking: they must be able to see in the dark. There’s no other explanation for their ability to touch him like… _that;_ like he’s a puzzle to be fiddled with until he loses his mind. An excited shiver sizzles his nerves. He swallows. Humming arousal settles in his belly as his hole twitches, craving for something to plug him up. He forces himself to act on auto-pilot, twisting the faucet on and squeezing a dollop of white paste on his toothbrush. He places the brush in his mouth and cleans his teeth absentmindedly, eyes unfocused as he thinks.

It would make a lot of sense. Why else would they turn the lights off instead of just blindfolding him? It’s not like they want to be romantic about it, considering the stuff that they’ve… done. Plus, being able to see in the dark would help in charging his phone and taking his clothes off, no? But speaking of his clothes, _where_ do they even go? How are they even taken off?

Suzuki shifts his weight to one foot, debating whether or not something silly like magic could be the explanation. He’s thought about it before, their ability to make things appear and disappear, but he’s never been able to settle on an answer. Misdirection, drugs, sensory deprivation and subsequent inattentiveness… none of it resonates with him. None of it makes sense.

Magic, despite its inherent childishness, seems the only plausible explanation. There’s just too many things that don’t make sense otherwise. His clothing, for example. His shirt and pants vanished last night. The scissors from the first night, too, appeared out of nowhere. Then, there were the lights in the classroom that one time when…

Suzuki’s attention suddenly focuses, and he meets his reflection’s eyes. He looks a little silly with a toothbrush hanging out of his foamy mouth, and he averts his gaze in embarrassment, brushing his teeth with slow, conscious movements. He tries to ignore the sizzling in his belly.

…All of his senses have felt unaffected, so it couldn’t have been drugs. Or at least, it couldn’t have been ones that he’s heard of. He’s had no withdrawal symptoms, so that knocks out the majority of drugs anyway. Misdirection doesn’t make sense; his sight has always been taken away one way or another, and misdirection is a technique based on manipulating line of sight. Sensory deprivation… well, he’s not too sure about that. It’s the most plausible reason he can think of without crossing the line of reality and make-believe. Somehow, though, he feels like it’s not enough to explain everything the person is able to do. It’s missing something. _He’s_ missing something.

He doesn’t know what that something is.

Magic could explain how they suddenly appear out of nowhere. Teleportation, or something like that. Suzuki prides himself on his keen situational awareness—something he’s polished after years of avoiding kancho—yet he’s been caught off-guard already! The first time he could understand. He was sleepy and out of it; same with last night. But that time after school, when he was fully awake and aware… how? There’s absolutely no way he got snuck up on like a normal person. Sensory deprivation can’t explain that.

Right?

Suzuki’s eyebrows furrow without his notice. He moves on.

The notifications on his phone are a complete mystery. Kind of. He’d say the person is a hacker of some sort, but the “get on your knees” notification—Suzuki blushes a little—debunks that, especially since it popped up on his screen when the person’s arms were around his body. In that situation, how would they have tampered with his device without notice? Is he really that oblivious? Was it magic, again? Probably. Maybe they pre-set the notification to pop up on his phone, but somehow that seems too far of a stretch. Which is silly, actually, because he’s literally theorizing that they use _magic…_ plus, he’s dealing with something that’s not even human—

Suzuki blinks once, remembering the sight of too-pale skin; then he squeezes his eyes shut as a violent shiver wracks his body, mind filling with the vivid memory of thick, pulsating heat in a pretty lavender color, rippling on his tongue, fucking him deep in his throat. He has to consciously resist the urge to swallow around his toothbrush and accidentally ingest toothpaste. He anxiously shifts his weight from one foot to another in hopes of relieving the sudden tightness of his belly.

It doesn’t. Instead, it only agitates his arousal when his full bladder presses down on his prostate. He aggressively brushes his teeth and forces his feet to still, unknowingly ignoring the prickling sensations on the back of his neck. He’s too preoccupied by his thoughts to notice the growing feeling of needles at his nape, crawling and tingling like ants skittering across his skin. The more he thinks about the person’s body, the more it overpowers his awareness of it. All he can think about is their arms around his waist, hands loving him with gentle touches; the familiar, enveloping heat pressed into his back, emanating unusual yet comforting warmth; almost feverish in nature.

Suzuki pauses. Is that even their normal body temperature? A vague and buried memory resurfaces to his mind. Sharp teeth. Pale skin. _Vampire?_ Maybe. Vampire using magic, huh. They could be a vampire, but it doesn’t really… well, actually, he has no idea. Not a clue. But aren’t vampires supposed to be cold? Does that mean they’re probably not a vampire? But why the canines, then?

And speaking of their warmth, why does it feel so good?

His mind travels to the first encounter. The excruciating pain he remembers is very fuzzy, but it’s definitely there. The only thing he vividly remembers from the first night—besides the mind-numbing pleasure—is the heat of their hands on his body and face. It was like the pain in his legs and back dissolved in an acidic solvent of warmth just with their touch. He misses it. It felt so good, and in a way that didn’t overwhelm him, it brought pleasure he’s never felt before. But, how?

He has no idea, so he moves on. A snuffle of curiosity sounds in his mind, and he focuses on it:

Why do they touch him so much, anyway? Suzuki sniffs out of embarrassment even though his nose is clear, a habit he’d developed a few years ago without even realizing it. It’s not as if he’s complaining about the touching; he’s just curious. If anything, he loves their touch.

A pleasant shiver courses through his body just as he thinks that. Phantoms of caresses and praising kisses engulf his body. Soft, glowing warmth spreads from his cheeks, to his neck, and to his belly, easing the sharp edge of arousal. His eyes focus and he meets his own gaze in the mirror. He’s able to hold his eyes steady this time, the happiness spreading through him mellow and sweet.

 _Yes,_ he repeats to himself in his mind. He loves their touch. He decides to drop the thought there. There’s no use in questioning something that doesn’t need to be questioned.

In the short time it takes him to finish brushing his teeth, he goes through a list of many, many things that have been on his mind, most of which accumulated in the three weeks he was unable to bring himself to orgasm. It was like last night’s “activities” were the catalyst to unleashing a flow of suppressed curiosity.

At the flitting thought of last night, a new wave of muted giddiness floods his belly, and he hurriedly spits out the foam in his mouth and rinses. This time, he washes his toothbrush and sets it back into its holder. He splashes some water on his face and peppily steps his way to the towel rack to pat himself dry, then turns to the toilet with a little apprehension.

His penis kind of hurts, after all.

 

**10:06 AM**

Suzuki flinches at the spare spritz of freezing water that attacks his scratched back, a small noise escaping his throat. The roaring of the shower drowns out his voice. He’s glad he managed to empty his bladder before entering the shower. Had it still been painfully full, he’s sure some drops of urine would have oozed from his slit by now. Especially since his slit is… like _that._

He glances down at his half-hard penis and blushes, a lick of arousal giving him the shivers.

It’s probably best to ignore it for now, so he does.

He eases into the stream of water as it warms. Steam fogs up the semi-clear shower curtains and gives him a sense of comfort. He’d turned up the water hot enough to nearly scald his skin, and he revels in the feeling of all-encompassing warmth, easing his muscles and chasing away the spots of remnant cold; flushing out his body in a rosy pink. It’s bad for his skin, he knows, but he really, _really_ loves hot water. He couldn’t care less about drying out his skin in exchange for pure bliss.

Lukewarm water, which is what his mother tells him to use and is more than likely the healthier option, just feels disgusting. It’s too gentle, not enough to satisfy the heat-starved child inside of him. The easy warmth makes him restless, like there’s always more he’s not getting. To be honest, he’d rather a freezing cold shower than lukewarm.

Having said that, though, he can’t ever fathom why anyone would willingly take a cold shower. Athletes do it, but that makes sense. He’d probably cave and take a couple of cold showers too if he was in the blazing sun for hours on end. But regular civilians? People who take cold showers just because they like cold showers? His mind boggles at the possibility of such a person existing.

He _does_ know someone like that exists, though, because Michael—his friend—is someone who takes cold showers regularly. Granted, Suzuki’s always thought Michael was a bit… strange. Funny, yes, but strange. Especially lately. His brows furrow as he reaches for his shampoo.

He’s caught Michael watching him a lot these past few weeks. The first few times, Suzuki chalked it up to chance. After all, he’d noticed Michael staring at him the first month they met each other in middle school too. It had annoyed him at first, but he got used to it. _Can’t be helped,_ he’d told himself.

But now, in high school, there’s no reason for the staring. The eyes are what unnerve him most. There’s just this feeling; slight, but definitely there. Michael’s gaze feels like a pile of squirming, squishing, damp and moist worms wriggling all over each other beneath a thick, thick layer of covering; sealed with duct tape a thousand times over, locked away with no key, and Suzuki is stuck with his hands right inside of it. He can’t explain it any better than that. He just _feels_ it, and it got stronger every time he caught Michael staring at him. It’s gotten to the point where he knows when Michael is in the room just by the slimy feeling that crawls up his spine, tainting his mouth with sourness.

That’s not the only thing making him uneasy either.

Michael has always been much smarter than his grades let on. It’s in the way he fails worksheets but knows the subject; neglects the homework but offers Suzuki on-the-spot help; sleeps in class but knows the lesson plan. He has answers for everything Suzuki asks, like a machine. A living Siri.

And it’s because he works, really _works._ He just doesn’t flaunt it, nor does he put that work into public school.

Suzuki first found out about Michael’s “secret” work during one of their summertime house visits, specifically the summer after graduating middle school. He’d found stacks and stacks of burned-through study books on one of Michael’s shelves and, not expecting much, flipped through them curiously when his friend had left the room to prepare sandwiches. What he’d found quite literally shook him to the core. The study books had been volumes of AP Calculus BC, multiple editions of AMSCO’s AP World History, AP English and Composition, Barron’s AP Biology, Princeton Review’s AP Chemistry, AP US History, AP _everything._ There were maybe 25 books on that shelf, all—he didn’t check every book but still—of them filled and annotated with Michael’s chicken-scratch handwriting.

In his shock he’d snapped the books shut and placed them back on the shelf without a word. Suzuki never brought it up, even when Michael came back with a tray of turkey sandwiches asking why he was looking at him so weirdly. Suzuki had successfully—he questions the validity of that now—played it off by saying _“You look like you’d be a terrible waiter…”_ and Michael had gasp-laughed in offense.

Back then, Suzuki thought he was in the clear. Michael didn’t say anything about it, so he just assumed that his snooping went undetected. But now, as he thinks about it in the shower, he swears that Michael had glanced towards the shelf with a knowing look, given him a secretive smile here and there, dropped hints that he knew what Suzuki knew. A slow trickle of anxiety begins to drip into his mind.

He’s sure he must be overthinking it. That’s what happens when someone takes a hot shower. Shower thoughts, people call them. But even as he tells himself that his worrying is ridiculous, the trickling anxiety seeps deep into the chambers of his heart, and his stomach churns with foreboding. It’s exacerbated by the remnant pieces of shy happiness from earlier.

Michael is smart; very, very smart. To the point that it’s bizarre. Borderline terrifying.

A sickening thought clicks into his mind, his pre-shower monologue brought up from the depths. His initial nonchalance threads with growing panic.

What if Michael knows? About the things that have been happening to him; about him getting raped, getting off, getting loved. The thought strikes him deep in his core, making his hot shower feel much, much colder. His mind spirals downwards.

Michael only started staring at him about a more than a _month_ ago, hadn’t he? Around the time that Suzuki lost his virginity. The timing is perfect. Dread stills his hands, caught up in his soapy hair, and he washes the lathered shampoo from his head without thinking about it, squeezing his eyes shut. Like his thoughts, his shower routine picks up tumbling speed.

It can’t be, right? It can’t be that Michael knows about his debauchery, his perversions. His enjoyment of it all. There’s no way. But then… why? Why the staring? Why the discomfort? The timing? Michael’s eyes have never felt like this before. Right? They used to feel teasing and light, the eyes of a leprechaun prancing around a pot of gold. Never slithering and dirty, like squirming leeches on a festering wound.

If Michael knows, then what does he think of Suzuki now? Is he judging him every time he walks into a room? Can Michael see him with creamy disgrace splattered all over his body, drooling with sugary violation, leaking with loving defilement from every orifice on his body? Did he see Suzuki’s fingers twitch in memory when he caught sight of the scratch marks on the plastic chair—the same one the person sat on when they got their cock sucked by him? He must have; Michael’s eyes had met his once Suzuki realized what was going through his mind. Michael smiled at him when their eyes met. Why, oh god, why did he _smile?_

Did he notice Suzuki pause and stare at his phone in shock when he got the notification during chemistry? He must have; he looked at Suzuki and asked him _What’d you get on the WHAP test, Suzie?_ in an ever so strange voice, looked at him in an ever so strange way when he’d replied _100, I got a 100._ He thought it was Michael’s way of showing he was impressed, but no; that’s not what he looks like when he’s impressed. Suzuki would know. He’s impressed Michael a lot.

Then that’s it, isn’t it? Michael knows. What now? God, what now..?

His stomach swoops as his mind repeats, once again, almost derisively, _What now?,_ and he can feel the pressing edges of panic at his throat. Hot water pounds at his body. He can’t tell whether it helps or worsens his turmoil. He’s disgusted by the lining of arousal he still detects in the muddled glob of his mind. His friend, one of his two and truly trusted friends, knows that he’s a pervert. A _pervert._

The word now sours his mouth far quicker than Michael’s staring, and Suzuki opens his mouth to fill it with running water to avoid vomiting all over the shower floor. He spits the water and swallows down the bile rising and bobbing in his throat, but he can’t stop the squeezing of his hole when he remembers his debauchery. The tightness of his lungs as his breathing quickens in time with his panic only reminds him of his suffocation when he was mercilessly fucked; milked; taken. He can’t stop it. The goopy pleasure mixes in with the dread and fear in his stomach. He’s so utterly overwhelmed that all that’s left is a solid black of impending doom.

 _Pervert._ He imagines the word coming from Michael’s mouth in a cliché tone used for heinous crimes—rapists, necrophiliacs, pedophiles—even though he knows it would hurt and it _hurts_ just as bad as he thought it would; drowning him in helplessness no different than when he’d realized he spent years believing his aunt was still alive, that he’d had fun and smiled thinking that he’d see her again at least once, unaware that he never brought flowers to her grave for four years, that he disrespected family in the most disrespectful way; and it hurt. It hurt it hurt it hurt. He doesn’t even think he’s ever seen Michael look disgusted. He doesn’t know what expression his friend would wear.

He doesn’t want to know what it looks like.

To him, enjoying a thick cock in secret was fine; Suzuki could deal with his own matters and his own morals and his own emotional distress—to which he had none because he _liked_ pleasure and he _liked_ warmth and he didn’t see anything wrong with it as long as only _he_ knew; it was a guilty pleasure and that was it—but when someone else knows? When secrecy is no longer secrecy? When it’s his _best friend_ that knows? His best friend?

A surge of sour liquid rides up his esophagus. He’s able to swallow it down, but a teasing taste in the back of his throat makes him gag. He slaps his hand over his mouth as his eyes well up with burning moisture, desperately swallowing down his vomit and overflowing saliva. He doesn’t blink his tears back, instead squeezing his eyes shut and keeping them shut. Hot water rains down his face, droplets sliding and mixing in with his even hotter tears, rolling right past his viscous snot without diluting it. His eyes are going to be puffy again.

He can’t, he can’t he can’t he can’t; what if Michael tells the others? Tells Julie? God, he can’t. He can’t. She would believe him, because really who wouldn’t? Michael never lies. He has all of his joking mannerisms and carefree lifestyle but he _never_ lies. That’s why Suzuki trusts him so much. He doesn’t want Julie to know. She’s never been nearly as close to him as Michael has, but he’s known her just as long. He’s grown accustomed to her cackling laughter, finds her never-changing humor comforting—he can’t, oh god, he can’t imagine what it would be like without it.

His spasming throat settles down, but he doesn’t remove the hand from his mouth. He finds that the air around him has grown so suffocating that he can’t find the strength to move. The hand around his mouth is comforting, anyway. It reminds him of the person—and there it is, the pervert in him, the snake of pleasure that coils around his conscious. He’s disgusting. The shower’s too cold. Despite his earlier movement difficulty, he very easily swipes his other hand forward. He spends a few moments blindly groping for the shower knob before grabbing hold of it and slamming it to the HOT label with more force than necessary. The spiked temperature soothes him just as much as it burns him.

He wants to drown in it.

Suddenly an intense, pleasurable shock brings him to the tips of his toes, blanking his mind. Electricity courses through his spine from the back of his neck, curling his fingers and snapping his eyes open. His head snaps left and right in quick succession as his body momentarily loses control. The shock lasts for several pulses, coaxing a small and involuntary noise from the back of his throat as it caresses every fiber of his being. He trembles at its meticulousness. The shower stream only seems to lengthen the gentle pleasure, every droplet of water rolling down his back making him arch in his sensitivity. It lasts long enough for him to pinpoint where the electricity is coming from—his nape—and the current travels every nerve leading up to his fingers and toes, shooting out from his tips.

The ordeal lasts no longer than three seconds, but it spazzes his entire conscious and warps his sense of time, dragging it out far too long to be normal. It flows out of his body without so much as a warning, leaving him wobbly and weak, shivering, breathless and gasping. It felt as if he had just orgasmed, only without ejaculation. He braces himself on the greasy shower wall, and eventually falls to a crouch as both mental and physical exhaustion takes its toll. He curls in on himself, flinching slightly as the water hits his back with less intensity but just as much quantity. The thundering of harsh water hitting the shower floor is much louder at this level, but its deafening roar soothes him. His eyebrows crease in confusion as soon as he settles, thoughts stuttering to an abrupt stop.

What the hell was _that?_

A humming buzz resides in his body, left over from the shock. The constant sensation slows his mind and consequently his body, alleviating some of the heaviness in his gut. Momentarily, just for a split second, he loses his entire derailing train of thought, and in that split second he realizes something:

Michael may be smart, but he’s not a psychic.

Just like that, the thought flits away. The gravity of his situation dawns on him once again. Out of desperation he clings to the tail-end of the thought—yes, Michael is no psychic, not anymore than Suzuki is at least—and grapples onto it to hoist himself up from the pit in his stomach. Alight with a second wind, his mind restores itself to a proper thinking order, albeit a slightly desperate version of one.

That’s right, no? There’s a chance that Michael _does_ know, yes, just as there’s a chance that he _doesn’t._ Suzuki rises from his crouch, willing himself to trudge through the muddy areas of logic. Instinctually, he reaches for his loofah, then his body wash. He steps partly out of the stream of water. He squirts a dollop of body wash onto the loofah and lathers soap over his body slowly. He scrubs gently, repetitively. He thinks in the same manner as his movements, unconsciously taking in a deep breath.

He knows for a fact that Michael has been staring at him more frequently and more intensely. While he doesn’t know why, exactly, he’s sure that he can find out. He’s been friends with Michael for, what, three years? Four? He’s not sure, but he knows what Michael is like. Funny. Honest. Surprisingly observant. Decisive. He was the one who first approached Suzuki years ago, when the news of his aunt’s death finally reached him:

“You good?” Michael had asked. Suzuki had replied with _Yes, good._ He really hadn’t been good, so unsurprisingly Michael had called him out on it—in private, of course. Suzuki had appreciated the etiquette. He still does. After the in-depth heart-to-heart, he’d asked Michael how he’d known something was wrong. His friend simply looked at him and said, word for word, pitch by pitch:

“Dunno. You had this aura.”

Suzuki hadn’t known what that meant back then, but he’d accepted it as an answer anyway. He’d just been glad someone called out to him. _It must be one of those English nuances,_ he’d told himself. He really wishes he’d asked for clarification now, though, because even after years of speaking English, he still has absolutely no idea what aura means. For all he knows, Michael really _is_ a psychic and can see electromagnetic waves around people.

...Is that even what they’re called? Electromagnetic waves? It doesn’t sound quite right. Isn’t that what he uses lambda for? 6.626 x 10^-34? He’d learned it in chemistry—Planck’s constant, or something like that.

Suzuki huffs a breath of laughter. Somehow his own ignorance makes him feel better. He bends at the waist to scrub his legs, feeling the last of the heaviness in his heart ebb away, replaced with careful hope.

By nature, Michael is inherently observant. It’s a given when he can store so much information in his brain. 25 AP study books and all. By no means, however, does that mean he can read minds.

 _Yes,_ Suzuki repeats to himself with more conviction, _Michael is no psychic._

That significantly reduces the chances of Michael knowing about his situation, or at least the specifics of it. In other words, Michael knows something is wrong, he just doesn’t know _what,_ hence the staring. More than likely, Michael has been looking at him more closely to figure out what was going on. Just as Suzuki only has his memory and intuition to rely on, Michael only has his “aura” sight and sharp mind. There’s a very low possibility that Michael’s own mind would guess the real reason for Suzuki’s aura.

Then, if his aura is the reason for Michael’s staring, what exactly _is_ his aura?

Suzuki shuts his eyes and thinks long and hard about the timeline of Michael’s behavior. He steps back into the stream and does a mini twirl, letting the water wash off the soap suds.

It started around the time he lost his virginity. Yes. Why? And Michael’s staring had worsened over time, hadn’t it? Not a steady decline either; it was an exponential crash. Why? What connects his own behavior with Michael’s?

He stands still so the water runs down his back.

It takes approximately 7 seconds for it to click:

\- - - - - - - -

—His mood!

It’s so frustratingly simple that it makes him feel like an idiot. He turns around and lets the shower stream assault his face with quick spurts of water. A face palm wouldn’t be enough to express his exasperation, but he does it anyway. Smacking the heel of his hand to his forehead feels surprisingly pleasurable.

In the past few weeks, he’d been plagued by the lack of contact with the person, no? The restlessness he’d felt had translated into his lack of orgasm, hadn’t it? He even had a mental breakdown, for god’s sake. Did he not just spend hours crying last night? Suzuki flushes at that thought but moves on. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that everything had affected his day-to-day life, especially at school. Lack of sleep, constant checking of his phone, pulling back from social interaction… that’s what he’d been doing, isn’t it? Michael’s staring didn’t coincide with his loss of virginity, it coincided with everything else that came with it! And the staring worsened around the time Suzuki embarrassed himself in class! The cussing! Blowjob! Oh! Staring! He’s always been nervous with people’s eyes looking at him! That’s why it felt so bad!?

He ends up standing in the stream water for twelve more painstakingly long minutes before he settles down.

 _...Wow,_ Suzuki thinks to himself after his mind decelerates completely. _I might have good grades, but I’m a dumbass._

As an afterthought, he adds: _It really do be like that sometimes,_ then promptly stifles his lame laughter to the point that he almost vomits from relief. He completely forgets about the electric shock that triggered the relief of his worries in the first place.

 

**1:07 PM**

_“Onii-chan, can we watch a movie?”_ A small, shy voice asks. Suzuki looks up from the jigsaw puzzle he’d been working on with Kenneth to see two pairs of large brown eyes staring at him expectantly. Keith and Amano. He smiles at them without thinking about it. He can’t really help it when they look so cute, especially with Keith clutching a half-solved Rubik's cube to his chest and Amano wringing his hands in front of his body. Suzuki’s not really sure which one asked the question, but he guesses that it must’ve been Amano. The older sibling is usually the one that makes requests. From the corner of his eye, he sees Kenneth raise his face as well, peering curiously from beneath his bangs.

 _“Movie?”_ Suzuki asks, eyes softening when Amano excitedly nods with hopeful eyes, face lighting up. Suzuki glances to Keith, who meets his gaze with wide, curious eyes. He has the fleeting thought that Keith would probably say yes to any activity as long as it kept his attention.

 _“What movie?”_ Kenneth speaks what’s on Suzuki’s mind. His voice sounds gentle and interested, but Suzuki turns to him to gauge his mood just in case. To his relief, he sees the boy’s shoulders relaxed and his eyes genuinely intrigued. Kenneth is usually willing to go along with many of his younger siblings’ requests, but Suzuki knows from experience that he often sacrifices his own interests for the sake of theirs. Too many times has Suzuki needed to step in and allow the eldest a chance to pick and choose for the group.

Amano seems to think for a few seconds before opening his mouth to speak. _“I—”_

 _“Ken-nii choose!”_ Keith pipes up suddenly, interrupting Amano. All eyes turn to him in varying degrees of surprise. Amano’s mouth snaps shut, but he doesn’t seem to be upset. Keith doesn’t seem pressured by the three pairs of eyes staring at him—unsurprisingly so since Keith is the floaty type of boy who can’t read moods—and instead beams at everyone with sparkling eyes, squeezing the Rubik’s cube closer to his chest. Suzuki glances to Kenneth— _Ken-nii,_ Keith had called him—and suppresses a smile when he sees the utterly shocked look on the boy’s face.

_“Why me?”_

Keith’s response is instant. _“‘Cause Ken-nii is good!”_

His argument doesn’t really make sense, but his confident, radiant smile leaves no room for rebuttal. Suzuki watches as the eldest hesitantly glances to Amano, seemingly becoming even more shocked when the younger boy smiles and looks back at him expectantly. His eyes flit between Amano and Keith for half a minute, at a loss.

Eventually, Kenneth turns to Suzuki for help. Suzuki has to purse his lips to repress the smile threatening to show on his face. Kenneth, though more mature and wiser than his younger siblings, looked as if he had just lost his mother in a supermarket. Having a sudden responsibility forced onto him must’ve left him confused, a little desperate, and a lot unsure. Suzuki feels a teensy bit bad for him. The boy has never been good at making decisions for himself. Oftentimes Suzuki has to provide a narrow range of choices for Kenneth to pick from, and even then he has difficulty settling on just one.

 _“Do you have a movie in mind, Kenneth?”_ Suzuki asks. By saying this, it settles the fact that Kenneth is in charge of choosing the movie. The eldest of the siblings looks nonplussed at the question, and Suzuki watches in slight fascination as his face soon morphs into a stunningly expressive caricature of deep concentration. It’s such a stark contrast to the bubbly, blank faces of Amano and Keith that Suzuki barely reigns in his urge to giggle.

 _“I don’t know…”_ He says finally, voice seeped with edges of frustration, softening it to a point of sadness. Suzuki smiles reassuringly, hoping to ease the boy’s worries, and slips his phone out of his pocket. Somehow seeing the device makes a small burst of energy explode in his belly. It’s happened lot since he got out of his morning shower, and it always manages to put him in a better mood than before. God, just remembering the kissing last night makes him want to bury his face in his hands and squeal in happiness!

But he has to reign it in. It wouldn’t do any good to freak out right in front of his little cousins.

Suzuki beckons the siblings to crowd around him by patting the floor next to him, pushing the jigsaw puzzle away to make space. Kenneth, already sat on the floor, scoots closer curiously. Keith and Amano wobble over and plop down on the floor in near sync, puffing up a gust of air that fluffs up their hair. Gravity pulls the strands back to frame their faces messily.

 _“Ayako!”_ Suzuki calls in the direction of the kitchen. There’s four seconds of silence before Ayako’s curious eyes peer at him from behind a column separating the living room and the kitchen, her small hands gripping its plastered edge.

 _“Yes?”_ She asks, clearly surveying the situation in the living room. Her eyes linger on the jigsaw puzzle a bit distastefully.

Suzuki motions her to come nearer with a smile. _“Come and see what Kenneth is going to choose for a movie.”_

At the mention of his name, Kenneth blushes in slight embarrassment. The lack of shame is a huge improvement from two years ago, though. Kenneth had been much more reserved and hesitant to speak back then.

Ayako, who began walking rather slowly at his call, noticeably quickens her stride when she hears the word _movie._ Her pigtails, clipped with pink plastic piglets, bounce with every step. While he waits for her to arrive, Suzuki unlocks his phone by pressing his home button and entering his Touch ID. He can feel the boys’ eyes staring at his phone with varying degrees of wonder and awe. He has the fleeting curiosity of what kinds of phones they have, or if they even _have_ phones for that matter. Some kids these days have iPhone X’s, so he can never be sure.

A Whatsapp banner flashes across the top of his screen, and he catches a glimpse of his tagged name underneath _Michael_ before it’s replaced by another banner from his Gmail. The preview tells him it’s about another college tour opportunity. That kind of stuff is useless, if he’s being honest with himself. He should probably mark every college email he gets as spam. Majority of it is just advertising anyway.

Suzuki decides that he’ll answer to the Whatsapp later, away from prying eyes. He’ll have to accomplish his task of getting Kenneth to pick a movie first though. By the time he’s opened up Chrome, Ayako’s sat down in the small space between him and the jigsaw puzzle. She leans up close to his face and peers down onto his screen, parts of her hair falling into her face and consequently onto his phone. He lowers his hand so she can see a little better, and she sits back on her heels, seemingly appeased. The angle seems to grant the other kids better vision too, and they settle into a more relaxed posture.

He types in _children movies_ into the search bar, praying to a god he doesn’t believe in that their young, innocent, pure eyes didn’t catch the _Chinese Gay Blowjob and Fuck_ search result that popped up as he was typing. He hopes they also didn’t notice him falter and blush. He should really, really rename his bookmarks, huh? Better yet, he probably shouldn’t bookmark porn in the first place.

Steadfastly moving on from the embarrassment—the kids didn’t see it, so he thinks it’s fine—he swipes downwards until both side-scrolling movie lists are in full view. He turns the screen towards Kenneth, much to the other kids’ displeasure. They stay quiet, though, the only indication of their mood being the anxious straightening of their backs to peek at his screen. Suzuki glances at Kenneth’s face to see the boy’s eyes squinted. It takes a few seconds for Suzuki to realize that his screen brightness is too low—he’d even reduced the white point so it was even darker—and he quickly swipes his thumb upwards to open the accessibility tab. Then, he swipes up again to raise the brightness to maximum. He murmurs a soft _sorry_ to Kenneth and tilts the screen back.

Kenneth seems a bit confused at first. Once Suzuki demonstrates how to scroll through the movie list, though, he takes the hint and cautiously reaches his finger out to touch the screen. He’s extra careful sliding his finger across, and Suzuki reigns in a smile at the boy’s constant glances at him to make sure he was doing it correctly.

He feels Amano shift from beside him, clearly trying to get a better view of the screen. Ayako does much the same. Keith, on the other hand, seems to be content with staring at the back of Suzuki’s phone case. His case isn’t anything special; simple, black, durable, efficient. Nothing more and nothing less. Even so, Keith stares at it with so much intensity that Suzuki wonders if there’s something attached to his case. He knows there’s not, but it doesn’t stop him from glancing at it just to make sure.

The silence is faintly awkward. He watches as Kenneth scrolls through the movie lists, first starting from the one above, then scrolling through the one below. However, it’s soon revealed that both the lists include the same movies, just in a different order. Kenneth decides to scroll through only the top list, most likely to due ease of access—after all, Suzuki’s thumb _is_ slung across the bottom half of his phone to keep it steady.

 _”No choose yet?”_ Ayako’s impatient voice breaks the silence. Kenneth’s finger falters, and he glances up nervously, shaking his head. Ayako blows a dismissive blueberry, not seeming to be upset. Kenneth visibly relaxes his shoulders. Suzuki finds himself relaxing as well.

 _“Don’t worry,”_ Suzuki says to Kenneth without thinking about it. Another tagged Whatsapp banner flits across his screen, but he ignores it. He sees Kenneth glance at it worriedly despite what he’d told the boy. _“Do you see a movie you like?”_

The boy meets his eyes, and for a few seconds Suzuki thinks that he’s going to say no. But then he nods, ever so slightly, and Suzuki smiles.

_“Which one?”_

Kenneth scrolls back to the very beginning of the list and rests the tip of his nail on his chosen movie. _Smart boy,_ Suzuki thinks absentmindedly, _using his nail so it doesn’t register on the touch screen._

_“This one.”_

“How to Train Your Dragon?” Suzuki asks, just to make sure. Kenneth nods. A spark of hope shines in the boy’s eyes when he sees his siblings perk up at the word “dragon.” Their sudden interest triggers a memory, and Suzuki somehow vividly remembers the words _“We love to watch dragon dances on Chinese New Year. You should come with us next year, at Bellaire!”_ spoken in Aunt Emi’s voice.

Warmth floods his chest. Of course Kenneth would choose something about dragons—something that would appease everyone in the family. Suzuki’s grin widens, and he pulls the phone back. His cheeks hurt a little from smiling so much.

 _“Everyone okay with watching_ How to Train Your Dragon?” He asks, and of course everyone in the group gives their excited approval. Keith quite gracefully sets his Rubik’s cube down on the carpeted floor. With his now free hands, he claps as a show of enthusiasm. Suzuki catches Kenneth breathe out a discreet sigh of relief.  

 

**2:07 PM, First Movie**

Suzuki somehow ends up sitting on a leather recliner, all by himself, while the kids sat together on a separate couch. Apparently he’d grown too big to fit with them. The siblings had protested this separation at first, but Aunt Emi appeased them by moving the recliner to a place they could see just by glancing over to the right. He’s quite happy with his spot, actually. At this angle he can see the kids’ faces illuminated in the screenlight. They make interesting expressions together, each one an indicator of just the type of person they are. Of course, at this angle his view of the movie is also a bit obstructed. The TV screen is centered on the couch and not tilted towards his seat, but he doesn’t mind. It’s not as if the movie is for him to watch. Besides, this way he can check his phone without worrying about seeming rude—or at least, he can check his phone whenever Kenneth’s not glancing back at him.

Suzuki’s not sure why the boy looks so worried every time he glances over his shoulder, nor is he sure why the glances are so frequent. Kenneth had been the strongest opposition to the seating separation, so maybe that’s why? Is he worried that Suzuki won’t like the movie? He shouldn’t be. Suzuki enjoys the _How to Train Your Dragon_ films, albeit he’s only watched the first. Aunt Emi, ever so extra, had encouraged the five of them to have a marathon and watch all three parts of the franchise once she’d heard of his deficiency. Suzuki thinks that she just wants five hours of quiet to herself, but it’s not as if he has any objections to it. The kids, unsurprisingly, had agreed enthusiastically.

So that’s how they ended up scheduling a five-hour run time of movies. Quite a long time to sit still. Well, again, not like Suzuki’s complaining; he _likes_ watching movies. And even though he’s already watched the first film, he still finds enjoyment in seeing the kids’ faces light up and react to what’s happening on screen. It’s just as captivating as the movie.

They’re about twenty minutes into the first movie when Suzuki gets the urge to use the bathroom. He cringes when he gets up to move. The seat is loud, and characteristic of old, glossy leather, it sticks to his skin and croaks under his weight. True to his own desire, the sound sends tiny ripples of arousal throughout his body, heightened by the memory of lips on his mouth and fingers on his tongue. Unfortunately, the sound also draws Kenneth’s attention to him, and he desperately hopes the blue light of the screen washes out the redness of his face.

Kenneth cocks his head in question when Suzuki continues to swing his legs off the recliner. Another groan from the couch, combined with the worry emanating off the eldest sibling in waves, turns the heads of the other kids. Suzuki awkwardly completes his movement and slides off the armrest, feeling his sweatpants drag against the leather with a soft sound of moving fabric. His feet, clothed in cotton socks, hit the floor with no more than an inaudible thump, but it seems to trigger a break in the silence.

 _“Where are you going?”_ Kenneth asks, sounding more than a little bit worried. Suzuki blinks as the phrase strikes a chord in him. Flashes of memories flit across his mind—his voice, meek and weak, pleading for the person not to leave him; his hands, warmed by flesh and skin; his hair, gently combed through with calloused fingers; his lips, claimed and kissed. All of it sends a surge of pure, unfiltered happiness up his spine and stimulates the heat in his belly.

If his blush hadn’t been noticeable before, it definitely is now. With the best of his ability, he smiles through the mix of embarrassment and giddiness. He’s been smiling a lot today. He’s been _happy_ today. A little lonely, yes, but happy nonetheless. He just can’t wait to see the person again. Just to kiss and cuddle. Hold hands. Giggle.

 _“The bathroom.”_ He says at the same time he thinks _fuck a few times here and there._ He prides himself in reigning in his—a tad bit derisive—laugh. His humor has been slipping lately, especially today. He has no one to blame but Michael, who’d tagged him in quite a few memes, ones that he’d checked during the first few scenes of the movie. Some of the jokes were innocent: simple cat photos and captions. Most of them, however, were completely out of the ordinary and targeted many of Suzuki’s “weaknesses.” Just thinking about them makes him want to laugh, and the mix of laughter and happiness just heightens his high mood even more. Being in the same room as children enjoying a movie makes it go the extra mile.

He hasn’t felt this happy in years.

Kenneth seems to be relieved by Suzuki’s answer, if the relaxing of his shoulders and the easing of his posture is anything to go by, but he keeps his eyes focused on him. The other kids blink in disinterest and turn their attentions back to the screen showing the main character, Hiccup, arguing with his father. Suzuki reaches down behind him and swipes his phone from the seat, pocketing it. He does so without so much a thought. After all, his phone has essentially become an extension of himself, no matter how sad that may sound.

Deciding not to worry about Kenneth’s staring too much, he heads to the guest bathroom. He can feel Kenneth’s eyes follow him as he walks away from his seat, the oddly familiar prickling at the back of his neck a tell-tale sign of someone’s gaze. He’s reached the entrance to the corridor when he hears movement behind him. He turns to see Kenneth half-jogging to him with a nervous look on his face, illuminated only by the red and orange light coming from the screen.

 _“You want to come with?”_ Suzuki asks, slight surprise evident in his voice. Kenneth nods with a wobbly, unsure smile. The amount of hesitance in his manner speaks volumes.

Suzuki doesn’t question it and, after returning Kenneth’s smile with one of his own, continues walking to the guest bathroom. He slows his pace so Kenneth doesn’t feel rushed. If the boy wants to come with, then who’s to stop him? There’s nothing wrong with wanting to go to the bathroom with someone. Though, Suzuki has the feeling that this bathroom trip is more than just a means to execute bodily functions.

His suspicions are confirmed when Kenneth’s voice pipes up nervously behind him.

_“Haru-nii?”_

Suzuki looks over his shoulder. The corridor is dark, so he can just barely see Kenneth standing about three steps away, looking up at him with wide eyes as if Suzuki was much taller than 5’5’’. Seeing a nine-year-old nearly his height pains him. Isn’t he supposed to be a lot taller, especially as a high school student?

_“Yes?”_

Kenneth takes a second to speak. _“Are you having fun?”_

Suzuki blinks, mouth parting. _Am I?_ He asks himself. Suddenly he’s reminded of Keith and Amano’s shocked gasps at the first appearance of a dragon on-screen; Kenneth’s smile when the opening credits rolled in with a glorious soundtrack; Ayako saying something like _“Why does he_ [meaning Hiccup] _look like an acorn?”;_ Michael’s texts referencing good days in middle school; utter nostalgia hitting him like a freight train at the sight of the Island of Berk. _Am I?_ He asks again.

Yes

 _“I am.”_ He says after a few moments. The amount of sincerity he detects in his own words surprises him just as much as it seems to relieve Kenneth. The boy brightens as if a weight was taken off his shoulders. His back straightens and his knees unlock, increasing the height difference between the two, albeit the change is miniscule. It makes Suzuki feel better about himself anyway. _“How about you, Kenneth?”_

 _“I am!”_ Kenneth says immediately, with a distinct child-like innocence. He seems to realize his own eagerness and reigns it in, clamping his mouth shut and backing away a step. Suzuki feels his entire manner soften with something akin to love. That kind of unabashed enthusiasm and subsequent shyness—he never finds it anywhere else but in children. He wonders if he’d been like that too, back then.

 _“I’m glad.”_ Suzuki says with a somewhat bittersweet smile. Kenneth, ever so sharp, senses the change in tone, and his eyes flash in question. With a forced upturn of his already curved lips, Suzuki banishes the negativity in his mind. No use in letting a nine-year-old know of his worries.

 _“Come, I’ll let you use the restroom first,”_ he says as a change of pace. At Kenneth’s hesitance, he adds, _“So you don’t have to miss any more of the movie.”_

Bingo. That brings Kenneth to attention. Suzuki steps to the side and pivots, standing as if he were a bouncer to a club. He takes liberty in reaching over and twisting the bathroom’s door knob, pulling it towards him so as to open the door. Kenneth, now in a hurry to get back to his seat, brushes past him and murmurs thanks. A quick gust of fresh, air-conditioned wind blows into Suzuki’s eyes as the boy passes. He waits until Kenneth has flicked the lights on before shutting the door.

He’s slipped his phone out of his pocket before he’s even realized it, and he stares at his unlocked home screen in quiet wonder after he’s hit with the revelation. Pulling it out as if it’s second nature the instant he gets the chance—is that not a tell-tale sign of dependency? _You kids n’ em’ phones,_ his health teacher’s voice scolds in his mind.

He wonders at what point he’d became so attentive to his device. Had it been the days after he lost his virginity? Had it been the days he spent hoping, wishing, praying for contact? Had it been the days when he started bookmarking his pornography, keeping an eye on it at all times to stop wandering eyes? Had it been _today,_ the morning after he let years of stifled pain spill from his chest?

He doesn’t know. He just knows it’s sad to get so emotional just because his phone reminds him of something.

After his initial moment of wonder wears off, Suzuki checks up on his notifications. He opens Whatsapp to see seven messages from Michael and 87 messages in the group chat with his friends. Tapping on the app gives him that same rush of anticipation— _is the person going to pop up again?—_ but his disappointment when no notification appears is not nearly as strong as it had been before. Instead, he feels a sense of sweet patience, like waiting for cookies to finish baking in the oven. The cheesy comparison makes him breathe out a laugh, and he continues on with what he intended to do.

He checks the group chat first. There’s no mentions of his name and he hasn’t been tagged, so he clicks out of it quickly. A couple of messages stood out to him when he’d scrolled, though; most notably the ones saying “FUK SUCHXKI N HIS 100 IN CHEM LMAODKSKS” and “ntbk quiz next week.” He can only guess that “SUCHXKI” was supposed to be his name. He’ll get back at Linh for saying that next week. As for the other message, Suzuki makes a note to himself to fix up his chemistry notebook in preparation for the quiz. He hasn’t touched that thing in literal weeks!

He taps his thumb onto the chat with Michael, taking a moment to chortle at the ridiculous picture his friend set as his profile picture: a selfie Michael had taken wearing the kangaroo onesie he used for a WHAP presentation. Suzuki still can’t get over that. He never goes a day without bringing it up.

Michael’s chat with him is completely different from the group chat. Whereas the group chat is essentially a place for text-only ranting and a few pictures, his and Michael’s chat is entirely picture-related. Suzuki scrolls up to his favorite message chain, which had been sent by Michael earlier today, and snickers to himself as he looks at it. A picture of someone’s index finger pierced with seven staples meets his eyes. Above the photo, Michael had written a simple, yet endlessly amusing, caption: 

 

> **Michael**  
>  @Suzii  
>  Nobody:  
>  Lance in 4th period English:

Suzuki had recognized the Twitter meme format almost instantly. At first, he’d been utterly repulsed by the photo. He’s never been a fan of anything sharp; in fact, he can barely handle getting his vaccinations at the doctor’s. The thought of _anything_ piercing his skin sends rippling waves of unease through him, but Michael’s caption makes him remember _Lance_ from middle school. That boy would stick literal needles into his nails like some kind of makeshift crossbar piercing! It had spooked Suzuki out back then, but now that he thinks about it, it’s so ridiculous that it’s hilarious:

“Y’all can hate, but I’m Wolverine right now,” Lance would say every time someone ridiculed his needle-stunt. Suzuki vividly remembers being confused as to what Wolverine was and googling it the moment he came back from school. “You think Wolverine cares about haters? Nah.”

A bark of laughter bubbles up from his chest before he can stop it, and he quickly covers up his mouth in embarrassment. It doesn’t tamp down the strength of his smile, though, and he feels it stretch the skin of his cheeks. The meme is stupid, but it’s _funny._ It shines a positive light on the worse parts of the past few years. He doesn’t think he can ever repay Michael for the laughter he’s given him.

Once his laughter settles down, Suzuki scrolls until the first of the seven new messages is in sight. The message is a screenshot of a tweet. He snorts at its blatantly school-related contents, though it doesn’t trigger the same type of pure-hearted laughter as before. A joke has to be personal to him for it to have a huge effect—though, he’ll agree that any world history joke would be funny to him as long as he understands it.

Suzuki swipes the history joke to the right to reply to it. He always does this with the pictures Michael sends, and Michael returns the favor in the rare occurrences that Suzuki finds something worthy of sharing. His interactions with Michael are, in the barest of terms, transactions of memes and reactions. Perhaps on his resume he could exaggerate his skills by saying that he’s “proficient in the exchanging and handling of goods and services."

> **You**  
>  Michael  
>  _[[image]](https://i.imgur.com/j7pl3rH.png)_  
>     
>  I’m laughing

He taps send. The chat jumps down to his sent message, and Suzuki raises his eyebrows at the blue checkmark next to the time stamp. He types in another message.

> **You**  
>  Lurking?

The response is instant. How does Michael even type that fast? 

> **Michael**  
>  yea lol i had smth to send to u  
>  then i saw u type
> 
> **You**  
>  Oh  
>  I’m at my cousins so sorry if I leave you on read

> **Michael**  
>  o yea u a family boi  
>  tru? ???

> **You**  
>  You're funny

> **Michael**  
>  btw u saw the meme i made of u last night?  
>  in gc

> **You**  
>  Michael  
>  btw u saw the meme i made of u last night?  
>     
>  No  
>  Did you tag me?

> **Michael**  
>  You  
>  Did you tag me?  
>     
>  yea but u didnt react so ig u didnt see it??

> **You**  
>  Michael  
>  yea but u didnt react so ig u didnt see it??  
>     
>  I didn’t

> **Michael**  
>  You  
>  I didn’t  
>     
>  it be like that sometimes

> **You**  
>  Can you send it to me again?

> **Michael**  
>  You  
>  Can you send it to me again?  
>     
>  no u gotta scroll

> **You**  
>  Michael  
>  no u gotta scroll  
>    
>  1k spam scroll?

> **Michael**  
>  You  
>  1k spam scroll?  
>     
>  it really do be like that sometimes _[emoji]_

> **You**  
>  Michael  
>  it really do be like that sometimes _[emoji]_  
>     
>  Stfu

Michael sends a flurry of messages in response—most likely out of surprise; Suzuki has _never_ used that acronym, and he himself doesn’t know why he used it either—but they’re left unread as he hears the toilet flush behind the bathroom door. The door knob twists and opens moments later, revealing Kenneth with a satisfied look on his face and still-wet hands. The boy awkwardly steps out of the bathroom, leaving the light on. Behind him, the toilet quietly rumbles with running water.

 _“Thank you,”_ he says shyly. Suzuki gives a polite smile and steps back, signaling for Kenneth to go ahead and return to the living room. He does just that with one last appreciative glance to Suzuki.

Suzuki’s not really sure how to talk to someone who just came out of the bathroom, so he’s glad that the glance only lasts for a fleeting moment. He still watches Kenneth’s retreating back until it turns the bend towards the living room just in case the boy decides he needs something else. He doesn’t, so Suzuki pivots back in the direction of the door. As he heads into the now unoccupied bathroom, he glances at his phone to look at the messages Michael sent. He catches a glimpse of “stfu??” and “who tf do u think u are _[emoji emoji emoji emoji].”_ He rolls his eyes, raising his phone to reply. He doesn’t bother reading the rest of the spam and swipes a message he can answer.

> **You**  
>  Michael  
>  who tf do u think u are _[emoji emoji emoji emoji]_  
>     
>  鈴木

He uses Japanese just to be a smartass. Michael doesn’t like it when he uses Japanese, apparently because he has to “google translate it every time!” Well. Suzuki decides that if Michael doesn’t know how to read his name in Japanese by now, then they aren’t really friends. Or maybe Michael’s just stupid. Suzuki doubts it, but it really do be like that sometimes.

He snickers at his own reference and reaches to close the bathroom door.

> **Michael**  
>  You  
>  鈴木  
>     
>  im gonna kancho u w this  
>  _[[image]](https://i.imgur.com/oke699V.jpg)_

It takes a moment for the image to download. 1, 2, 3–

“—Ha!” Suzuki barks without meaning to. The image attached is of the finger pierced with seven staples _again._ It tickles out a rush of manic laughter from him, and he struggles to keep his vocal chords from vibrating, desperately opting for breathy laughter. He ends up half-wheezing right next to the toilet and right in front of the mirror. He’d probably look super dumb if he looked at his reflection—and yes, he does. Suzuki holds his own gaze for a moment, willing himself to settle down. He’s successful.

...Then he starts laughing again, turning his head and covering his mouth.

Suzuki’s suddenly struck with a great idea for a reply, and he wills his fingers to cooperate with him as his frame shakes with laughter. First, he swipes Michael’s kancho message and sends his caption as a reply. After that, he taps the plus sign to the left of the text entry line, then taps the option _Photo & Video Library. _He scrolls up his camera roll until he finds his desired reaction photo.

> **You**  
>  Michael  
>  im gonna kancho u w this  
>     
>  You’re funny!  
>  _[[image]](https://i.imgur.com/sgkkgRl.jpg)_

Suzuki takes the time to admire his reply, giggling to himself. The photo he attached was a shocked cat with its mouth open in disbelief. It seemed to be unintentionally blurred with movement, making it even more dramatic. It’s the perfect image to display the power of a perfectly executed kancho.

He notices that the checkmark underneath his message is grey, meaning Michael is no longer actively reading the chat. Suzuki feels a bit disappointed, but he knows that he’ll get his share of laughter from Michael just as Michael had gotten a share of his.

He taps out of the private chat to enter the group chat, which seemed to be in the ruins of another active discussion. Suzuki catches a few hints of his name as he scrolls through the hundred and something messages, though he doesn’t pay any close attention to them. He’s more focused on finding that “meme” Michael had made of him last night. It was probably sent to him when he was… _occupied_ with other things, or perhaps sent to him when he was crying. Suzuki feels a twinge of cringe at that thought, but it’s nothing too bad. If anything, the warmth in his chest completely overpowers it! Kissing someone… feels really good. Kissing _them_ feels really good.

He hopes he can do it again soon.

Just as he thinks that, and just as his thumb hits the screen for another scroll, a notification pops up. At first, he thinks it’s a low battery notification. After all, he’d been using his phone since morning without stopping to charge it. But then he looks at his battery percentage— _49%? Low battery doesn’t trigger until 20%_ —and catches a glimpse of the word “Would” on the notification bubble. A rush of exhilaration fills his lungs to near overcapacity, and he quickly slides his thumb to the edge of his screen to read the rest of the words.

Would you like to meet again? If yes, press OK. If no, press outside the box. A new dialog box may open.

OK

Suzuki’s hands shake from excitement, but he pauses to process the information. Since his touch already registered for the OK button, he keeps his thumb on the screen to keep the notification from disappearing. New dialog box? Meaning, a new follow-up notification? This is new. Well, the whole _“I’m not giving you a choice to say no so just go ahead and lift your finger”_ thing isn’t, but still. Rather than being annoyed at it, Suzuki finds it quite endearing, and he smiles with a dopey feeling in his chest. To be honest, the person doesn’t even need to ask if they want to meet him, so he doesn’t mind the lack of an actual question.

But a new dialog box? What are they going to say? Are they going to give him another question that’s answered for him, or are they going to give him an order to follow? Are they going to give him an actual choice? He doesn’t know, but probably not.

Then again, he doesn’t really _care_ either. He just wants to see them.

With that, he lifts his finger. He shivers at the feeling of something caressing him—like a knuckle ghosting the very hairs on his nape, or even worse a small bug crawling on him—and he quickly slaps his right hand on the back of his neck. There’s nothing to be felt but his own skin. He dubiously brushes off the sensation with the help of a flash of light on his phone, his gaze focusing back on the screen to see a new pop-up.

Do not look at my face. A new dialog box may open.

OK

Suzuki feels his smile fall. The happiness he’d felt crumbles _just_ a tiny bit. He notices that the person hadn’t done the trick where the OK is already selected for him, but they also hadn’t done the usual “If yes, if no” thing either. He’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean. Are they testing him? It’s not like he was going to refuse anything they’d asked, but somehow this order seems so… blunt? Is he just sensitive? He’s probably just sensitive. He knows he’s sensitive.

Suzuki would’ve been good and not looked at their face even without them ordering him not to. He knows they don’t want to be seen; in fact he’s _been_ knowing that. They might have ordered him just to be safe, but… did they not notice him willingly refuse to look at their face when he got the chance? Multiple times he’s done that.

Besides, why do they hide their face when _he’s_ completely exposed? Well, no… that’s an entirely different matter… nothing to do with this. He pushes the thought aside. He doesn’t mind the fact that he hasn’t seen their face. It’s just the fact that the person doubts his integrity. Even though he knows it’s for anonymity’s sake, it _hurts._ He doesn’t know why it hurts, but it doesn’t matter either way. He wants to be good. He so, so desperately wants to be good. He wants to hear their voice again, wants to hear them tell him he’s good, because he _has_ been good. He’s been good. Hasn’t he? No?

With a shaky finger, he presses OK. Pressing his thumb to the screen out of his own will feels foreign and wrong, yet it gives him a sense of liberty all the same. _I want this._ He doesn’t realize how badly he’d been affected by the order until a new pop-up appears, and he feels wetness slide down his left cheek as he reads it.

Good boy. 

Close

He looks in the mirror to see himself crying.

 

**2:42 PM**

In total, it took Suzuki nearly fifteen minutes to finish up: five minutes for texting Michael, six minutes to process the notifications and calm down after crying, and four minutes to actually use the bathroom. Needless to say, he walked out with a sheepish stance.

He still can’t believe he cried. Because of what? A simple request? Is he stupid? But more than anything, he can’t get over the last notification he’d gotten. _Good boy._ The words make Suzuki blush, and he looks at the ground as he walks. A purring echo of the person’s voice fills his mind, and he ironically fiddles with the sides of his pants to try to ease his fidgeting. **_Good._** Their voice had sounded so deep. Like an honest to god growl. What was their accent? Where are they from? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything, but he just knows that he likes it. He likes it when they speak.

He walks slowly to have time to collect himself before entering the living room. _Do not look at my face,_ they’d told him. That either means he’s about to be in a situation where their face would be clearly visible, _or_ it was an order to last the eternity of his encounters with them. He desperately hopes that it’s the former. Though he’s alright with not being able to see their face _now,_ he doesn’t know how he’ll feel in two or three years when he _still_ isn’t allowed to see it.

Well, that’s if they even continue to contact him for that long… and he desperately, desperately hopes that they do.

But in the hopeful scenario of the former, how is he supposed to react? When, exactly, are they going to pop up in a place that’s easy for their face to be visible? If _he_ can see it, who’s to say that others can’t? What if it’s just him that’s not allowed to see it, but others are? A pang of hurt strikes his heart at the thought. No. That makes no sense. Why on Earth would they hide themselves like that? He’s just being stupidly worried.

Suzuki doesn’t have enough time to settle his questions before he reaches the living room. Rounding the bend, he steps in as quietly and sneakily as he can, the Sly Cooper theme playing automatically in his head. He resists the urge to huff a laugh, the song easing his constricting stomach. When he gets to his recliner, he looks over his shoulder to the left to check up on the kids. All of the siblings’ eyes are glued to the screen, mouths open in wonder as Hiccup pacifies a rabid dragon. Once again, Suzuki’s heart fills with warmth and love. He wonders if he’s ever been that innocently enraptured with something.

He barely notices the sudden appearance of a presence beside him. As such, he also barely notices the eyes watching him the very same way he’s watching the children, the only indication being that same prickly feeling on the back of his neck. Much less does he notice the amused smile directed at him from _his_ seat in the recliner. That’s why, when he absentmindedly gropes for purchase on the recliner’s armrest while still looking at the kids, he doesn’t expect the feeling of warm skin. He freezes up with a hitch in his breath as his fingers go through a mix of “what the fuck” and “this feels good.” His body flinches, but he maintains contact with the person’s arm.

Is it them? Yes yes yes—they’re here? _Here?_

Suzuki keeps his eyes glued on the kids’ faces, partly to keep himself sane and partly to make sure none of them look over to him. The order repeats in his head— _Do not look at my face—_ and his mind races with what to do next. The person’s literally sitting in his seat. What is he supposed to do? Sit on the floor?

No. That’s stupid. If he sat on the floor, that’d just draw attention to him. The recliner is just barely in the kids’ blind spot, so the floor definitely wouldn’t be. Plus, he wants to touch them. How is he supposed to touch them when he’s sitting on the floor? He could sit in between their legs, but… in between their legs… Suzuki flushes, and his fingers curl into the person’s arm. He _knows_ they knew what he just thought about because he can feel their hushed chuckle in the room even though he can’t hear it, and they’re _looking_ at him. Suzuki sweats and resists the urge to squirm underneath the knowledge of their gaze.

The person seems to give him liberty to choose what he wants to do. They don’t move a muscle even as he waits for an order. Suzuki, eventually realizing his own freedom, tries to settle on his next action, but it’s difficult to make a rational decision with all of the decidedly shameful thoughts scrambled around in his head:

They’re here! Here? Already?

Then that means they want to fuck him? Right now?

The kids are here. Awake. Fuck him when the kids are in the same room?

Suzuki swallows at the flare of arousal in his belly. Bad. Bad, wrong, immoral, but it excites him to the point that he _wants_ to get on his knees in between their legs; _wants_ to swallow their pretty lavender cock down his throat. Fuck. The kids have sharp hearing, especially Kenneth—is he going to be able remain hidden? Is he? Suzuki begins to harden in his pants at the thought of having to be extra quiet with a penis stuffed in his mouth, rammed nice and good atop that squeaky leather recliner, having something thick pressed into his neglected prostate, stretching out his hole—finally, finally, finally. _Fuck!_ He wants that!

Then, a realization hits him: he and the kids were having a marathon of five hours. He’s already lost, what, thirty minutes? Forty? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, but he knows there’s still hours left; he knows that he’s going to be played with during all that time. The thought punches him in the gut. What’s going to be done to him? Will they stretch him out with their fingers quickly, then offer up their cock as a comfortable seat? They wouldn’t even move, just to tease him. Just to let him sit there, speared on their girth. He’d lose his mind. He’d probably end up riding them for all he was worth, chasing orgasm after orgasm—and once he was done, which probably wouldn’t take long, they’d hold his hips down so he couldn’t take their cock out even though he was spent and tired. Keep him there just as a cock warmer. That’s something they would do.

And he wouldn’t have the strength to resist if they decided to use his hole for their own orgasm. He’d have to keep all of his moans and whimpers and begs to a low enough level. And that’s if the kids don’t even notice the loud squeaking of the seat. The leather had squeaked so much when he got up for the bathroom; he can only imagine the noises it would make if the person were to fuck him on top of it. He can only imagine the noises _he_ would make if he were to hear those rhythmic squeaks for himself; if he were to feel those nubs rub into his prostate; if he were to hear the squelching of his puffy hole when the kids were right there—Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_

What would he do if Kenneth were to look back at him while his ass was stuffed full? The boy is observant, too observant, and he’d notice immediately that something was wrong. He’d ask why Suzuki was crying and sniffling, why his face was flushed. Suzuki wouldn’t be able to respond. Every word would be caught in his throat as the person moved _just_ a centimeter to grind against his prostate, again and again and again until he came in front of Kenneth’s worried eyes. Suzuki whimpers silently at the thought.

He’s so worked up that he’s gripping the person’s arm and digging his nails into their skin. He’s hard—not fully, but he’s close. The person hasn’t even touched him yet! Suzuki squeezes his eyes shut because he can’t bear to look at the kids any longer, but also because he wants to chase after the teasing pleasure that sends electric shocks to his hole and makes it twitch; _fuck_ he wants it. He wants it.

He hears the familiar sound of creaking leather, snapping his focus. It was an impatient sound, like the sound of uncrossing legs. Suzuki realizes that he’s only wasting time. If he wants all of those things to happen to him—which he does, he _does—_ then he needs to act quick.

Suzuki eases his head to a neutral position, tilting his chin down to his chest. There’s a soreness in his neck but he doesn’t really care; he’s panting but it’s not that audible so it’s fine; he needs to make a move but he needs to calm down first. He needs to sit in their lap. That’s the safest place for him to sit. But if he just plops down, the leather would squeak too loudly and the children would notice. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. He can’t open his eyes to help him move because he wouldn’t be able to resist stealing a glance upwards.

_Do not look at my face._

Yes Sir. He wants to be good. He has to be good.

So Suzuki slowly lifts his nails from their skin, leaving several crescent imprints that would surely be visible should he open his eyes. His hand is sweaty, so his fingers stick and unstick to their rough skin. He takes his left hand, which had been gripping his pants, and blindly grapples in front of him until he finds purchase on the person’s shirt. He’s glad he hit their chest and not their face. After a few moments of confusion, he realizes that he should’ve left one of his hands on their arm as a point of rotation, so he awkwardly maneuvers his right hand back to its previous place. The steep indents his nails had made on their skin feel like reverse braille against his palm.

Their heart thumps faintly beneath his left hand, and he finds that it soothes the jitteriness of his movements;

_They’re here._

The thought strikes him deep. He’s suddenly filled with so much emotion that his eyes burn with unshed tears;

_They’re really here._

Something that’s scarily similar to the love he’d felt when he saw the children smile floods his chest, overpowering the potency of his arousal.

The sheer emotion gives Suzuki the bravery to lift his left leg up until his knee hits the armrest. He slides his left hand to the side until it hits their right arm on the other armrest. From there, he slowly crawls into their lap, holding his breath with every creak of the chair, hyper aware of any change in sound. He keeps his eyes shut all the while, even as he wraps his arms around the unmoving person’s neck and slots his knees in the unoccupied spaces of the seat, spreading himself on their lap. He keeps himself tense, hesitant and afraid of lowering onto the person’s legs. His left leg feels especially shaky, burdened by the weight of his pocketed phone. His limbs begin to ache with each passing second. He doesn’t mind. In this position he can feel the person’s breath on his neck, though faint.

Suzuki hears the movement of their hand before he feels it. Even with the warning sound, he tenses when a finger presses its nail into his tailbone. He shivers as it trails up his spine, tracing the scratch he’d received as punishment the night before. It tickles every nerve connected to his spinal cord. He arches his back instinctively, pressing against the person’s chest, and eventually his legs give out. He falls onto their lap with a soft noise. After his surrender, their finger turns into a palm, which presses the small of his back closer to their body. They pull him so close that his arms feel awkward wrapped around their neck, but he can’t move because it’d make too much noise. Suzuki flushes at the proximity, unconsciously tilting his head to the side and exposing his neck. He squirms imperceptibly in their lap, mind hazed with arousal. The person’s thick arms wrap around his waist to still him.

“!” On reflex, he squeezes his knees together when a light kiss presses to the crook of his neck. Their thighs block his knees from meeting, though, so he just ends up chafing his member with his underwear and squeezing himself closer to them. The feeling only heightens his neediness. He feels the person smirk against his neck. Another kiss is pressed to the same spot, this time more purposeful, and he reacts much the same.

A narrow tongue peeks out of the person’s lip to gently trace a pattern onto his skin. Suzuki shivers throughout the duration of their tongue’s skilled movement, but his mind remains keen on the pattern’s stroke order. It’s familiar, and Suzuki realizes that it’s the same pattern they’d traced onto his clothing during previous encounters. Something clicks in the recesses of his mind, but he’s too preoccupied to dig it out. Instead, he repeats the pattern over and over again in his head, trying his hardest not to lose his concentration even when an open-mouthed kiss sends pleasurable tingles down his spine. The pattern was square-like and simple; easy to remember, but he can’t _focus_ when he wants nothing more than to rut against their sturdy body, get held down and fucked, get messed up deep inside;

Almost in response to his thoughts, they start to roll the broad of their tongue against the junction of his neck, wetting the skin. Suzuki jumps at the sensation. After a while, though, he finds himself relaxing into their warmth, sinking deeper into their lap. He voluntarily pushes his cheek up against their head, silently encouraging their tongue and exposing more of his neck. But then he feels sharp teeth nick his skin. Hit with more arousal than fear, he inhales a quick intake of breath, almost audible in the tranquil music of the movie, and holds his breath thereafter. He doesn’t dare to turn around and see if any of the kids heard him. An “apologetic” tongue laps at his stinging wound, surely oozing tiny drops of red, but the saliva isn’t much help when combined with the bitingly cold air.

A faint, breathy noise escapes his throat when their tongue repeats the earlier pattern on his now reddened, glistening skin, this time slowly and with more force than necessary. He tenses with each deliberate stroke of tongue, reflexively scooting closer and closer until he’s squished himself into their chest. Suzuki doesn’t need to see the person’s face to feel their self-satisfied, _smug_ smirk brush up against his throat when he loosens his hold in embarrassment.

_They’re teasing me_

Suzuki, feeling indignant, withdraws by carefully wriggling out of their arms. The sound of shuffling fabric is covered by the windy sound effects coming from the TV. The person’s arms constrict against his movement like a toy python, playing along with his ruse. With a playful pout, he ignores the person’s superficial attempts at keeping him still and continues to wiggle free. He’s halfway out of their hold when they suddenly yank him back closer, and he lets out a rush of giggly breath as his chin lands on their head. He has the flitting thought that their hair is quite soft. The movement is so sudden that his eyes snap open for a split second, filling his vision with bright blue light before he squeezes them shut again. He steadies himself by leaning his weight on his knees, but he keeps from seating completely on their lap.

They press an approving kiss just under his jaw, and Suzuki automatically bares his throat by tilting his head back. He only realizes what he’d done when he feels their hot breath fan on his skin. Still feeling pouty about being teased, Suzuki makes a move to pull away again. But then the person grazes their canines too suddenly on his throat. Suzuki tenses up in instinctual fear, stilling immediately. And though he knows that the person won’t harm him, though he _trusts_ them, a single thought pierces coldly through his arousal like an icicle:

_Please don’t hurt me_

**“...”** Every part of the person’s body stills. There’s a minute pause in the room. The air goes cold. A hush of silence befalls the two of them. It envelopes the recliner in a small bubble, separating it from the rest of the room. Suzuki feels lead drop in his stomach, and though he tries to call back his heated arousal, he can’t reverse what the fear had done to him. He shivers, then. Even with the small amount of movement, the person’s teeth dangerously skims his skin, and again a bolt of fear makes him grip their shoulders.

_Please don’t_

Though he is sure the person will not hurt him, he can’t help but be afraid of the teeth at his throat: sharp enough to sink into his flesh, strong enough to rip out his larynx. The very thought laces fear through his blood, and his heart hammers with effort to pump it. Escalating music from the TV behind him does nothing but urge on his wilding thoughts. He doesn’t want pain, especially not the type of pain that’ll leave him scarred, physically and emotionally. He hasn’t been bad, he hasn’t looked at their face, he’s done everything right!

_I’ve been good_

He says it to himself again and again until the spark of hope it ignites fades away and he’s left with the feeling of still-ominous teeth at his neck and anticipating breath heating his skin. Seconds, minutes, perhaps half an hour passed, but throughout it all the person remained like stone underneath him. But just beneath his own thundering rhythm, he could feel their faint heartbeat. And like all the encounters before, their warmth felt feverish.

Suzuki instinctually focuses on the heat, trying to calm his involuntary shivering. It’s familiar and loving, so much so that he forgoes his earlier near-panic-induced stillness and melts like goo in their arms. Ghosts of fear cling to him when he feels their mouth brush up against his neck as it lolls to the side. He’s so relaxed that his body doesn’t even tense up for it. It’s only when he sleepily nuzzles his cheek into their shoulder that he notices the two fingers pressing into his back, putting pressure on a central weak point and emanating waves of warmth into him. He hums in quiet pleasure, kissing the person’s shoulder as a show of gratitude without really thinking about it. A low chuckle rumbles into his pliant body, the person’s head turning to nuzzle into his hair.

The two fingers then suddenly slide up his back in a red-hot friction trail. Despite its familiarity he tenses up in surprise, withdrawing from the crook of their neck with a silent whine. They tilt his head up by his chin. His sleepiness _almost_ makes him forget to keep his eyes shut, but then he feels warmth close to his face, and a teasing tongue swipes across his lips. Primal, submissive instinct makes him part his mouth before he realizes what’s going on. Curved lips soon claim his. His soft, confused mewl is swallowed up in a tangle of heat.

A confident, graceful tongue slides its way past his lips. Suzuki tilts his head to the side to greet it with his own ditzy and drunk tongue, unintentionally deepening the kiss. The person pulls back to smile and admire Suzuki’s flushed out face, but he chases them with a needy tongue just as he had done the night before. Their tongues meet and slide against one another. Suzuki shudders at the friction, mouth closing around it with a resounding smack of lips. He kisses them messily, unknowingly making frail little noises behind the wet slick of saliva and tongue. He’s lucky that none of the kids have noticed yet.

Calloused fingers rub his sides lovingly, urging him to continue. The feeling makes him squirm, accidentally grinding his forgotten arousal onto their lap. It coils his gut with unexpected pleasure. He whimpers breathily into their mouth and does it again, keeping his hands on the bend of their strong arms as leverage. He does it again. And again. And again, until he’s rutting into their lap enthusiastically, the apparent and rhythmic shuffling noises of fabric just as telling as the squeaking of a bed. His movements are so aggressive that his phone slips out of his pocket and hits the recliner with a thud. He pants into their mouth, pressing as close as he can, trying to balance between following their skilled and relaxed tongue and desperately rubbing his clothed crotch against their leg. He fuzzily registers the sound of Hiccup’s yelling from behind him and the subsequent giggles from the children.

The fingers travel from his sides to his back again. They dip beneath the elastic bands of his sweatpants and underwear, cupping his bare ass. Each hand takes hold of one globe, squeezing its plumpness with varying pressure as if appraising it like a fruit. Suzuki’s panting goes up an octave, and he arches his back and pushes his ass onto their hands, sacrificing his pleasurable rutting. He begs for a good appraisal, wants them to enjoy his body. He translates his thoughts into desperate, sloppy kisses. Pushing himself back into their hands makes it difficult for his short body to reach their lips, but he doesn’t want to stop kissing them. It feels so good—their lips—warm and loving and full and _good._

Unfortunately the lack of fully sealed, connected lips amplifies his quiet noises until they’re heard above the sounds of the movie. Suzuki luckily realizes this before he’s caught sucking on a stranger’s tongue and immediately quiets down, stilling his motions. The person’s hands never cease their fondling, but he doesn’t mind. He wants them to keep touching him, massage his supple skin until he’s warm and tender. He pulls away from their lips. A trail of soon-cold saliva connects them together until the trail snaps. They gently press their nails into his skin in question, cupping his ass and pulling him up with ease. He lets himself be moved in submission, and he ends up in a convenient spot with his mouth to their ear.

“Sir,” he whispers breathily before he can think about it. The sound of his own voice is a stark, foreign contrast to the heated atmosphere, and it snaps him from his daze. He pauses, mouth going dry. His earlier instinct-driven movements are nowhere to be found, and he fumbles with what to do next. He had intended to request something of them, but is it alright for him to do that? Would they mind? He doesn’t want to trouble them; after all, it is _his_ pleasure that they’re graciously giving him. He hasn’t done anything to please them besides offer up his body.

 _No,_ he decides. He shouldn’t request anything out of line. He stays quiet, then, and rests his cheek on their shoulder, facing away from their face. He forces his body to become pliant. Regret pools in his stomach as his lips become cold. He swipes his tongue across his lips to warm them again, telling himself that he’s also licking off the person’s remnant saliva. The thought is just to make himself feel better. He wonders if they’d still give him a kiss if he were to move back and open his mouth for them to take, but he’s too scared to try.

 **“...”** The air goes cold once more. Suzuki doesn’t notice it this time, still caught up in his own perceived mistakes. Even with the slightly ominous silence, the person doesn’t stop touching his buttocks. It’s likely why Suzuki’s usual perceptiveness hadn’t caught the change in their mood. They seem to be fascinated with the soft roundness of his ass. They touch him as if it were as natural and stress-relieving as fiddling with a lock of hair, and in his hushed sadness he finds himself feeling loved and needed. He relaxes completely into the warmth. With the hum of noise behind him a mere afterthought in his mind, he focuses on their touch and evens his breathing. He finds that he wouldn’t mind falling asleep here, held and embraced and cared for, even with the moist ache between his legs a constant reminder of what could have become of him.

But then a ghost of something touches the very edges of his conscious. He snaps to attention.

 _They don’t like it when I hide myself,_ his voice from the night before repeats to him. A surge of determination, bravery, courage, hope, or whatever people like to call it, shoots straight to his mind. It electrocutes his nerves and contracts his muscles. _I should ask for what I want._ He repeats that to himself until it becomes a blur of intentions. And so, with a soft and scratchy voice that doesn’t match his conviction, he turns and lifts his mouth to the shell of their ear.

“Sir?” He whispers softly, arching his back and pressing his chest pleadingly into theirs. His hardened nipples chafe against the fabric of his shirt, lighting a low hum of pleasure. One of their thumbs give his ass an encouraging, impatient rub. Suzuki finds himself pressing down onto it, a ripple of arousal spurring him on even further. His voice takes on a desperate tone as his earlier thoughts of getting fucked in secret—split in half, violated by a ribbed cock, crying orgasming Kenneth quiet quiet quiet begging stop stop too much—slam into him with the force of a car. “Please… keep me quiet..?” _Please, oh please please please fuckmefuckmefuckme_

Their fingers pause, as if surprised. Even _he’s_ surprised at the aggressiveness of his thoughts. Suzuki surrealistically hears the person swallow a low growl, but he’s sure he must have imagined it. His earlier arousal has come back in full force, and he clenches his thighs as his hole throbs and twitches for a cock to fill it up—a cock that’s right underneath him, surely pulsating and waiting for him to swallow it up in his body. He’ll do it, he’ll do it he’ll do it he’ll be good;

“Sir,” he whispers again when the person doesn’t move. Their fingers twitch on his ass, gripping him with their nails. “Sir, please, you can do what you want to me, just keep me quiet.” He reaches behind him and takes hold of both the person’s wrists. With little shame and lots of weakness, he pulls on their wrists. They let him spread apart their hands, exposing himself so his hole clenches and catches at the fabric of his underwear. A soft noise escapes the back of his throat when a pang of need strikes at his gut. “Just don’t let the kids hear. Please, Sir…”

Again, he hears a swallowed growl, but this time it’s unmistakable. It rumbles deep into his body, fluttering his heart and sending shocks of electricity through his blood. He tenses and squeaks when an exploring finger brushes against his hole. His dry, quivering pucker catches at the calloused fingertip, and he muffles his gasp by biting onto their shoulder when it presses down meaningfully. The lack of lube only makes him more sensitive. Yet the finger never penetrates him, to which he squirms desperately. His hands slide up to their shoulders to help him beg like the good boy he is.

“Please,” he whines quietly, still aware of the children. “Fingers, please—inside.” _Please stir me up inside_

The person lets out a shuddering breath beside his ear. Suzuki feels the flex of their fingers on his ass, squeezing and releasing like a stress ball. Their nails dig into his soft globes, and he shivers when one scrapes against his rim. He wishes for his skin to bruise from their touching, but he knows they’re being careful. The only mark he’ll have for sure is the hickey on his neck. Suzuki feels a rush of euphoria at the thought of the mark, and he brings his right hand to his neck to touch it, crossing over his chest. It’s tender and raised, stinging under his thin fingers, but it feels good, it feels so good. He loves it. He wonders how it would look in bathroom lighting and hopes it never fades away, though he knows it will.

The person’s right hand suddenly slips out from beneath his underwear, and Suzuki droops immediately from the loss of warmth. A rushed, apologetic kiss is pressed to his head. Their hand gives his abandoned buttock one last squeeze outside his clothing before retreating to somewhere he can’t feel. The hand still on his butt stops massaging his ass, and he feels a quiet hurt of disappointment. No fingers?.. It’s alright. He tried his best to beg. It really do be like that sometimes. At least they’re still here…

Suzuki’s just about to reach down and touch himself when a blanket of cool air quite literally falls on top him. It weighs down heavily, comfortingly _,_ and he realizes that it’s a blanket. A heavy-duty one, at that. He fumbles blindly to lift it from his head, and eventually ends up holding it behind the person’s neck like an oversized cape, forearms crossed. His mind boggles at the familiar feeling of cool polyester. Could this be the blanket from Aunt Emi’s car?

_How—_

He doesn’t have time to process the new addition before their right hand urgently slides to his left thigh. A finger quickly draws the square-like pattern he’d memorized earlier on his sweatpants, and before he knows it, his pants are gone! In the recesses of his mind, another thought clicks. But the motion is repeated for his underwear and he can’t grapple onto the thought. His sensitive cock gets exposed to new air. Suzuki shivers at the change in temperature, then shivers again at the thought of what’s going to come next.

 _Fingers yes yes!_ It’s easier to spread himself out without the confines of his clothing, so he does just that. He melts, gooey, into their lap and chest, knees parting wide enough for his small penis to lie on their pants. He’s pliant and willing. Somehow the barrier of the blanket makes it much easier to expose his hole in the direction of the TV screen.

Suzuki already feels hot and sweaty in his shirt. The person’s hands roam over his smooth, naked thighs, taking liberty to massage what they like, but they steadfastly avoid the throbbing heat between his legs. He squirms a little to urge them to do _more,_ but he can’t use his hands to guide them if he wants to keep the blanket from falling. Suzuki’s mouth opens in a pant when their hands go back to squeezing and spreading his ass. He turns his head to mouth at their clothed shoulder. It tastes like clean laundry and bitter fragrance, and Suzuki wonders what their bare skin tastes like.

A rush of breath escapes him when they spread his ass as wide as they can and push a dry finger against his pucker. They press into his hole with such meaning that he’s sure the tip will slip in dry, and he waits to relish the burn and the pain because he’s a good boy, he’ll take it if they want him to. But then they release the pressure, and in his fuzzy mind, Suzuki thinks that perhaps they plan to pull the same trick they’d done on the first night. Lube him up with magic. Give him that cold, cold relief deep inside him and warm it up until he’s burning.

However, the person’s finger anticlimactically slides from his hole and around his waist, trailing up his chest. Suzuki scoots back to give them leeway, a quiet “nh!” escaping him when their fingernail purposely scrapes his left nipple on its way up. His cock twitches when he remembers how tender his nipples were when he awoke this morning. Their amused exhale makes him flush scarlet.

Soon the person’s hand tilts his head up then to the side, away from his shoulder, and he obediently follows their instruction. He has to scoot up to do so. It’s an awkward position—his spine slopes at a low angle and he feels like he’s doing yoga, but the person seems to like him this way so he doesn’t mind. Two fingers press into his lips. He takes them in greedily. He wets and sucks them, playing with the hardness of their nails with his tongue and giving their thick girths little nibbles with his teeth. Their other hand gives his ass an appreciative squeeze when he swallows the fingers into his mouth as deep as he can. A moan that would have otherwise been heard by the children during the current movie scene is swallowed down with the digits. The fingers in his mouth must be their middle and ring finger—their index and pinky rest on his cheeks like antennae.

After only half a minute, their thumb gently caresses his chin, and he obediently stills his tongue so they can pull out their fingers with as little noise as possible. They slide out easy and without a pop. Some saliva dribbles out of of Suzuki’s mouth. Without missing a beat, their thumb wipes it off for him. He gives it a kitten lick as thanks, and the person gives him a responding kiss to his hair. The feeling of it makes him smile shyly, and he moves back to nuzzle their shoulder with his nose, drooping downwards lazily.

Their right hand slides back beneath the cover and rounds his ass. Their left hand grips his buttock and pulls it to the side, giving the other hand better access to his twitching hole. He jumps when the—now cold—fingers rub his own saliva over his rim. He clenches onto the finger pads, silently begging them to enter. The person seems to test the waters by pushing both fingers as far as they could go—without penetrating him—before Suzuki swallows in fear from the impending pain. They relent, not wanting to hurt him. Then, they take their ring and index fingers to spread his cheeks wider apart.

 _“That dragon is so cool!”_ Suzuki freezes at the voice—Amano’s voice—as does the person’s middle finger, now resting on his hole. He holds his breath and _prays_ that the none of the kids look over to his seat. Suddenly the blanket cover doesn’t feel as safe anymore. His heart pounds with adrenaline and though he fears discovery more than anything, his cock twitches as a pool of sickening pleasure floods his senses when the person’s middle finger takes to rubbing his hole. Back and forth, back and forth.

 _“I like_ Toothless _more…”_ Kenneth’s voice says. Ayako and Keith pipe up with their agreement, and Amano goes in a pouty silence. Suzuki bites back a whimper as the finger finally breaches his entrance. It’s painful, and his hole burns with the semi-dry stretch of their thick finger. Even so, he rocks back onto it, trying to get more of it into his body. He wants to feel their knuckle bend and twist inside of him, wants the person to feel him clench because he’s been a good, tight boy and he’ll make their cock feel just as good if they put it inside him. The sound of rustling fabric seems even louder in the trails of the children’s voices.

The kids don’t talk anymore than that. Suzuki thanks whatever god is up there that none of them had turned and asked him a question. He’s not sure how he would’ve been able to respond had anyone asked why he’s turned away from the TV screen, or why there’s suddenly a huge blanket covering him.

_Oh no, don’t worry. I’m just about to get fingered._

_Ah, this blanket? Magic… just like the cock that was inside of me six weeks ago._

_Don’t mind me, I just want to cum all over your mother’s leather recliner._

The sardonic thoughts come out of nowhere, some in Michael’s mocking voice. Suzuki giggles a little dumbly into the person’s shoulder. The finger in his hole gives a playful wiggle in response, and though it agitates the burning stretch, it also makes him giggle a bit more. Suzuki clenches around the finger just out of impulse. It feels good, a painful kind of good, so he does it again. The second time, though, it triggers a primal need for _more,_ and his gut throbs with its force.

**_Deeper deeper sink it in deeper_ **

The person, also struck with the very same need if the tensing of their body is anything to go by, tries to comply with his soundless plea. But his hole is too tight. He can’t relax. It’s too dry; too long since he’s had something penetrate him. Again, he clenches _again,_ and he squirms restlessly at the coiling barbed wires twisting his insides. He wants more, _please_ more, more;

He hears an uncharacteristically impatient _tsk._ The person’s mood seems to darken, and Suzuki feels the air grow much heavier. He shrinks back in fear, but somehow the dominant musk of the atmosphere eases the coiling of his stomach. **_They’ll take care of me._** He finds himself yielding to their intentions and forgetting his own worry. The person’s head turns to press a needlessly calming kiss to the top of his head, and their mouth stays there as their middle finger shifts in an all-too-familiar manner.

Though Suzuki expects the feeling of icy, slimy coldness down his channel, it doesn’t stop a soft squeak from escaping his throat. It’s much the same feeling as the first night he’d felt it, but that doesn’t make it any less strange. Suzuki shivers in slight discomfort as their middle finger pops out of his hole, consequently unplugging it and letting the liquid dribble out liberally. His mind then likens the feeling to cum leaking out of his hole. His cock twitches in excitement. Another kiss is pressed to his head, this time with curved, knowing lips. Suzuki makes an embarrassed noise in complaint.

The person rubs the excess lube onto his pucker, making him tense and arch his back. Before long the liquid has warmed and eased his puffy entrance. Their finger positions itself to slide into him, teasing his rim with its nail. Suzuki spreads himself wide, holding his breath in anticipation. Finally, yes yes finally, please—

“Red Death _is bad?”_ Keith’s confused voice asks. Suzuki releases his breath, mind stuttering to a stop—but then person’s finger delves deep into his hole, sliding in easily with a squelch. It glides right past his prostate. Suzuki chokes off a whimper, biting onto the fabric of the person’s shirt. His thighs tremble as their middle finger curls inside of him, a wide and calloused pad pressing down into his sensitive bundle of nerves. _Too much!_ He curls his fingers around the fabric of the blanket, digging his nails into his palm. _Too much,_ and he chokes out a sound that closely resembles _stop._ They release the pressure seconds later. He trembles with an exhaled rush of breath as they take to slowly thrusting their finger in and out, giving him no time to rest.

 _“I think so?”_ Ayako says in response to Amano. The person’s simper is apparent in his hair. Suzuki’s nostrils whistle as he breathes as quietly as he can, jerking with every deliberate pass over his prostate. _“It looks scary.”_

“Hng!” He jolts when a sudden, harsh rub to his sweet spot makes him spurt a jet pre-cum onto their clothing. The person shushes him quiet, and Suzuki bites his lip willfully, listening for any indication that he’d been heard. The pleasure is painful, almost, and it’s violating. His cock is throbbing, leaking; he’s about to come; all in the presence of kids, eight feet away. He asked for it, begged for it; and it feels good, it feels so good! _Pervert._ He can’t tell whether it’s shame or regret or arousal he’s feeling in the pit of his stomach, can’t even think.

Instead he curls in on himself as the finger drags out of his hole in small increments, keeping a forceful pressure on his prostate as it slides out. It feels like they’re trying to squash the spongy flesh down into a concave. His body jerks and shudders with each measured slide of their finger. _Press—slide, pause. Press—slide, pause._ Over and over. The person does it so, so achingly slowly that he winds up dizzy and lightheaded, unable to catch his breath. He’s biting his lip so hard that it might bleed. Pre-cum leaks steadily from his open slit with the constant pressure on his sweet spot.

 _“Hhn!”_ The finger finally leaves his hole with an “unintentional” scratch to his prostate, and the sensation is so sharp and sudden that a strangled noise escapes his throat, _too loud_ even through his bruised, bitten lips. Again, they shush him quiet, but this time they also give him a rewarding kiss to his hair. The release of the blinding pressure on his sweet spot finally gives him a chance to relax. He sags immediately into their arms, weak and panting. Coppery iron floods his mouth when he licks his lips to soothe the dull pain.

His cock is dripping. It dampens a spot on the person’s pants. He’s sweating beneath the blanket, the musky scent of arousal potent and dizzying. He hopes it doesn’t diffuse into the rest of the room, partly because he wants to drown in it but mostly because he doesn’t want the kids to smell it. His cock twitches at the thought despite himself. It doesn’t go unnoticed by the person if the teasing rub to his puffy rim is anything to go by. The feather-like touch makes his hole clench and quiver around air. His sweet spot pulsates with the memory of pressure.

Suzuki swallows thickly. His glistening, swollen cock aches with neglect.

 _“It’s so big,”_ Kenneth says. A strong pulse of need frazzles Suzuki’s mind at the innocent words. _Yes yes, so big! Want it inside— “But it does look cool, right?”_

He tenses in fear as he realizes what the boy’s questioning tone implies. A smidge of embarrassment also worms its way in as he thinks over what he just thought.

_God don’t look here don’t look here_

Suzuki stays hyper aware of any change in atmosphere. Not even the hard bulge he can feel pulsating beneath his tiny cock—through the person’s pants—distracts him from his fearful concentration. He hears Kenneth’s voice swerve to the left instead of the right—talking to Amano. _Safe._ Suzuki breathes out a shuddering sigh of relief, relaxing his unknowingly tensed muscles. The person’s free hand moves from gripping his slightly sore buttocks to lovingly caressing his clammy thigh. His sweat makes their hand slip and slide over his skin, and he blushes in embarrassment, moving to hide his face in their neck. To do so he has to shift his knees from the recliner.

The noise the leather makes the instant his sticky skin pulls away from it makes him regret ever thinking about moving.

The sound is loud enough that he’s sure the kids have heard it. He waits, then, squeezing down on the finger beginning to ease its way into his hole again. It thrusts in and out from the tip to the second knuckle, slowly, slowly, slowly. He waits with bated breath for the sound of Kenneth’s voice, or perhaps Amano’s, maybe Ayako’s, sparingly Keith’s, racking his brain for what to say to every question they could possibly ask. But he _can’t,_ he can’t because his mind clears on every thrust inwards, the person’s finger just barely grazing his prostate like some sort of reset button. It makes him shiver and tense, makes him ache for more.

And the voices never come. The finger never stops. The slow, careful, teasing, _smug_ movements continue to a point until Suzuki’s impatience triumphs over his fear.

“Sir,” he whispers breathily, all air and no sound. Even so the words he’s saying can be made out without question. The person’s finger doesn’t stop its inching movements, though it purposely presses down on his sweet spot, circling it, and Suzuki‘s next words take on a higher pitch. “O-One _hhnmore_ _please, please Sir…”_

The person purrs their approval. Suzuki feels a dry finger nudge at his pucker, still tightened around their middle finger. His breath hitches out of pure excitement. He tries to relax to help them ease the second finger into him, but it’s for moot when they slide their middle finger out with a pop. It ghosts ticklishly at his rim. He tries to suck it back into him, making a sad, confused noise when it doesn’t work.

_Put it back inside, I can take it I can take it please;_

Their left hand moves to the crook of his thigh. They reassuringly massage a spot of skin that’s dangerously close to his aching penis. It only escalates his primal desire for more. He whines impatiently into their neck, wounding the blanket tighter around them. They lovingly nuzzle his hair in response and pat his thigh, almost saying _it’s alright, it’s alright, I’ve got you; just trust me._ Suzuki flushes at his own interpretation of their actions, burrowing closer to the column of their neck. His scalp heats from their amused, lazy chuckle, and he ruts on their leg to remind them that he’s been a good boy in dire need of a reward.

He’ll never, _ever_ admit to himself that he literally ground his cock on their leg out of embarrassment.

An even more amused chuckle fluffs up his hair, and he’s just about to squirm in complaint when the dry finger rubs itself on his rim. He squirms for an entirely different reason then, the dryness giving his hole a delicious friction that stimulates his nerve endings more vigorously. The person rubs their finger tip on his hole in a circular motion, collecting fluid—once, twice, thrice—before finally sinking in. It slides in smoothly until friction slows it down, his rim catching at the dry skin. A little wiggling does the trick. Soon the entirety of the new finger has sunken into his soft ass. Suzuki squeezes down happily around the lone digit, thankful for something to fill the throbbing void in his gut, and shivers when it probes around curiously. _One is okay. Thank you, Sir—_

Wet coldness on the skin around his anus is the only warning he gets before a second finger—their lubed middle finger from earlier—suddenly nudges its tip past his rim. He gasps—quite loudly, albeit quieter than the movie when muffled by their neck—at the intrusion. A warning scratch is promptly administered on his thigh. _Quiet,_ it tells him. The stinging it leaves behind is nowhere near as good as the slight discomfort of his hole being stretched.

He tries his best not to make any noise even as the second finger coaxes its first knuckle into him. Already he feels so stuffed—and this was only two fingers! One all the way in, the other only half-way. The revelation makes him breathe out a meek, helpless mewl.

So full, he felt so full. Fingers so big and thick!

Suzuki wonders if it had felt like this last time. He can’t remember. He just knows that there were three fingers inside him that first night, and even with the three fingers he still stretched tight around their cock. He can still feel those little nubs popping into him, one by one, greeting his rim with a kiss before slipping in, grating into his prostate as they sunk in deep.

The person gives his sweet spot a well-timed rub, and Suzuki whimpers as his knees tighten around their legs.

He doesn’t know if they’ll fit inside him this time. Big, big, it stretched him so _good._ Not only his hole but his mouth, too. Left him soft and used. He still remembers how easily his fingers slid inside himself hours after, as well as the _days_ after. He remembers how unfulfilling it was; how much he wanted to feel so utterly full and compact, how thirstily he stared at anything with a thick girth, how desperately he spread his own fingers as far out as possible while inside of himself. He wanted it so bad. He _needed_ it.

The two fingers in his ass spread out and scissor him. He unconsciously presses back into the stretch with a needy whine, breathy enough to not warrant another scratch.

And he can’t help but wonder how much more he can take. Four-ish hours of getting played with in the same room as innocent children who are kept none the wiser—it drives him mad with arousal. He grinds back onto their fingers, keeping his eyes and mouth shut because he’s a good boy and because it makes it more exciting. With the slight creaking of the recliner and stretch of his ass and subtle pressure on his prostate, it helps him imagine riding their thick, heavy cock to orgasm, over and over and over; having to be gagged in some way because he can’t keep quiet, he just _can’t;_ how is he supposed to when that delicious cock presses into his sweet spot constantly, keeps him full, keeps him seated?;

 _“..ah...mh!…”_ He can’t stop the quiet moans from escaping him as the fingers take to following his unconscious rutting. They meet his grind backwards with a forward thrust, prodding at his sweet spot at _just_ the right time to stab his gut with pleasure. It’s a familiar and blindingly good sensation, one that assaults his mind with memories, memories of sensations that he thought he’d forgotten:

Memories of nubs grinding into that very same spot, forcing him to orgasm through the aftershocks of another orgasm, again and again, having to keep quiet through it all as the bed springs shook with the force of his convulsions and the bed creaked with the steady slams of the person’s pelvis to his buttocks, mercilessly— _feels so good._ Their two fingers start rubbing his sweet spot in alternate directions—

Memories of the sound of skin on skin louder than his pleas for mercy, the sound of his ejaculate spurting out of his cock louder than his pitiful sobbing as they pressed his face into the mattress and pulverized his hole, the sound of their humming praises louder than his babbled Japanese— _wait_ he silently begs, but the person’s fingers don’t stop and they continue to rub his prostate in circles. He bites the fabric of their shirt to muffle his helpless moans—

And they never stopped even though he begged and begged; they just kept going again and again and again—

 _Wait_ he begs once more but they only scrape their nails against his prostate. They do it just to see him writhe helplessly atop their lap and they keep doing it _they keep doing it—_ he squirted like a girl, wet himself on their cock, but they didn’t stop; only kept going; please— _wait—_ they touched him, rubbed his glans while they ground those nubs hard enough to squash his prostate under their body weight— _pleasewait—_ kept rubbing him digging their nail into his widened slit and his parents never heard the squishsquishsquish—please please pleasewait—fucked him so close to his father that some of his ejaculate splattered on the man’s face; gave it to him nice and brutal against the edge of the bed til’ clear liquid dripped down his legs like urine—touching me theretherethereplease—til’ a puddle of his own semen pooled between his feet—can’t; _going to; forgive me—_ a decisive twist of fingers drills their nails into his sweet spot, and Suzuki _can’t—FORGIVEME_

“I’m com—” is all he can get out in a rush of exerted breath before his heart stutters an erratic rhythm and his head electrifies with overwhelming white noise. His cock oozes out liquid onto the person’s clothing—thin because he’d already been so thoroughly milked the night before—as his entire body tenses up until he’s going to snap like a string pulled too taut. His ejaculation isn’t powerful; more like the squeezing of toothpaste, a steady discharge. The person keeps their fingers pressed cruelly to his prostate, not exactly moving their fingers but rolling the weight around and around, coaxing more fluid out of his slit—once; twice; thrice; four times; again too many too _many too much—_ and it keeps him on the brink of insanity and he can’t breathe, no air. His eyes roll back and flicker blindly as he cums and cums;

His throat clogs with unheard screaming. His lungs are burning, muscles aching with strain as his left hand grasps desperately at their bicep, which flexed with each millisecond of increasing pressure to his prostate. The blanket, without support on one side, falls lopsidedly. Only the stickiness of his sweat stops it from pooling to his middle as his body bends to the will of their left hand pressing him closer by the small of his back. A wolfish, predatory grin presses sadistically into his hair, and he’s helpless against the onslaught of sensation, stuck between consciousness and barreling into pain pain _pain it hurts—_

The pressure releases without warning just before he’s about to break. Suzuki falls like a ragdoll, limp and twitching. His chest remains locked for several seconds before he can slip in the tiniest, hiccuping breath, heart thundering rapidly in his ears and pounding his head with a rush of straggling blood. He swallows the collected mucus in his throat, blinking his half-lidded, rolled back eyes clear of tears that seep into the person’s saliva-soaked shirt collar. He closes his eyes with clenched teeth, trying to regain himself but unable to stop his body from shivering uncontrollably. His toes curl with the remnants of his orgasm, urethra still burning from the scorched liquid it had forced out. His breathing is so ragged that it takes more than three dizzying minutes to fill his lungs with an adequate amount of air.

 _“One,”_ the person croons above him, their left hand’s fingers trailing lovingly up his spine. The deep rumble of their foreign voice reverberates through his frail body, and he shivers minutely at the tickling fingers. It takes a few moments for him to understand what they said, the rough and unfinished edges of their pronunciation uncommon to his well-tuned ear. He knits his brow in confusion. His mind is too hazy from orgasm, tingling with sensation from their voice. _One?_

“..uhn…” Only a broken noise falls from his lips when he tries to repeat the number in question. He shuts his mouth and presses it into their shoulder in humiliation, jolting when a chuckle and a teasing wiggle of fingers—still buried in his ass—sends too many strings of pleasure through his body. He doesn’t attempt to speak again, even as the person caresses his nape with loving and encouraging fingers. However, they don’t force him to speak with an admonishing scratch, instead giving his sweat-soaked hair a tender and understanding kiss. It warms his chest and cheeks with a different type of overwhelming sensation than his orgasm. He shyly presses a small kiss, almost a nibble, to the person’s shoulder in response.

 _“Haru-nii?”_ Kenneth’s voice, though soft, cuts through his content haze sharper than an obsidian blade, splitting the air down to its very atoms. Terror seizes his heart and throat. Heard? He was heard?! His stomach churns and the warmth around him becomes suffocating. Yet somehow he’s washed over by a calm, soothing wave of clarity—so strangely timed that he’s not sure if it even came from himself—and he’s kept from tumbling into a pit of panic.

The fingers at his neck give his nape a comforting rub. _Breathe,_ they say to him, and he does, albeit self-consciously. There’s an expecting silence that’s fallen over the room. He listens closely to the TV screen and realizes that no dialogue is taking place. Rather, a country-sounding song plays its happy tune, and he recognizes it to be the credits song he’d looked up when he was younger.

 _The movie ended,_ he thinks to himself. _Already? So soon?_ He ponders it for a moment. _Not heard. Movie change?_ He decides that it would make sense for the movie to have ended without his knowing. He was quite… preoccupied, after all. With getting fingered. Orgasming. In a room full of kids. Almost passed out.

And Suzuki decides that he should probably stop there before his face lights itself on fire. But then an unsuspecting needle pricks his mind:

Kenneth is turned towards the recliner if he’s speaking to me, isn’t he? He can’t see the person? Their face isn’t covered, but Kenneth hasn’t said anything about the person yet. Is he just waiting to say something? Or can he not see them? Are they invisible, then?

Suzuki’s so busy trying to figure out the phenomenon that he lets precious seconds slip by on accident. As time stretches on, the silence becomes increasingly awkward. Suzuki knows that Kenneth will only get worried with a lack of response, so he resolves to speak. He isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to say, nor is he sure what he’s supposed to do, but Suzuki thinks that he should at least buy himself some time to think.

 _“Y-”_ Suzuki knows—from experience—that his voice is about to break. He swallows and clears his throat as subtlety as possible before continuing. _“Yes?”_

Kenneth is silent. Suzuki hopes with all of his might that he can’t see the person, that the only reason he was called was to change the movie. He uses the silence to gauge his surroundings, unknowingly relaxing into the person’s warm chest as he forgets his own body. The other kids are whispering among themselves, quiet enough for it to be but a brush of sound in the room but loud enough for him to pick out choice words. Ayako’s high, feminine voice is especially easy for Suzuki to hear. From her words of _No, Astrid’s dragon is better!,_ Suzuki happily assumes that none of the kids—besides Kenneth—suspect him of anything but enjoying the movie.

The assumption should bring him uplifting joy, yet the weight off his shoulders isn’t as significant as it should be. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s because he’s still unsure whether Kenneth can see the person or not. Or maybe it’s because he wasn’t that scared in the first place. At that thought, the fingers on his nape give him a cheeky scratch. He zones in on the feeling, unintentionally clenching around the forgotten fingers in his hole. The hitch in his breath is thankfully covered up by Kenneth’s voice.

 _“The movie is ending,”_ Kenneth says. Suzuki barely stops himself from breathing a huge sigh of relief. _Not heard, and Kenneth can’t see them. Good. But why?_ After milliseconds of racking his mind, he decides not to question the blessing further. But the relief he feels soon morphs into quiet urgency when the person wiggles their fingers and grazes his prostate. He seizes their bicep and digs his nails into their clothing as a pleading warning. _“Do you want me to change it to the next?”_

They don’t stop, instead sinking their fingers impossibly deeper into him. Defeated, he turns his head to partly face Kenneth. His eyes peek open just barely so the boy doesn’t get suspicious. His eyes are so narrow that he can’t see in the low lighting of the room.

 _“Y-Yes, please,”_ Suzuki replies in a thin voice. _“Since you’re closer to the TV, I’ll leave it up to y-you-hng—”_ He breaks at the end of his sentence as the the person’s fingers sweep over his abused prostate. He turns to bury his face in the person’s shoulder, gripping their arm. A wave of arousal and a swoop of shame makes him tremble. He scratches at the person’s bicep, urging them to—to do what? To stop? To keep going? He’s not sure, he just knows that he can’t, _no_ he can’t. Contrary to his turmoil, the person calmly—teasingly—circles his sweet spot before pulling their fingers out halfway. A meek whine escapes his throat, his eyes tearing up as he helplessly grinds back onto their hand.

 _“Haru-nii?”_ He hears Kenneth ask worriedly. Suzuki knows he can’t turn around and expose his flushed, teary face. But what can he do? He doesn’t want to, he doesn’t. But he doesn’t want the person to stop, either; he doesn’t want to be left alone! But this is wrong! Wrong, and he can’t. He can’t fathom how awful he must be to find more shame in disappointing the person’s clear expectations than being outed by Kenneth. The sudden assault of his values and morals is too much. So much that his calm dissipates completely, leaving an unsorted mess of conflicting emotions:

Does he want them to stop because he doesn’t want to be caught? Or does he want them to stop because he can’t hold on much longer before he comes again?

Does he not want to be caught because it would ruin his image and scar the children? Or does he not want to be caught because he wants to continue?

Suzuki knows _exactly_ which branches fit his mindset the best. He knows he’s a pervert. And it’s bad. _He’s_ bad.

The heat in his belly becomes heaping discomfort, and the pleasure he’d felt turns into disgust. Disgust at himself, disgust at his failure to please them, disgust at his perversion. He lets out a pained noise, his tears of arousal muddling into guilt and shame. The person’s body stills at the sound. Suzuki takes it as an awful signal that they’re upset. His sensitivity rears its ugly head. _I’ve done it now; they’re going to leave!_ He presses as close as he can to their chest, wiggling and scooting up in a desperate manner. The movement causes their fingers to just barely graze his prostate, and it’s so violating and invasive that he shudders in revulsion. He cringes when his drier skin touches the damp spots his orgasm had made on their clothing. He ends up with his right hand clutching the blanket to the back of their neck and his left grasping at their chest.

Don’t leave please don’t

Kenneth takes Suzuki’s squirming the bad way. His next words take on a slightly panicked tone. _“Haru-nii? Are you okay?”_

Suzuki scrambles for a reply through his devastated haze. He has the faint realization that he’s shivering underneath the blanket. He wonders how he looks like, shaking and making pitiful little noises as he clings to something invisible. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the person’s left hand trails down quickly to his thigh. He exhales a shuddering breath, almost a sob. He’s going to be punished! Of course he is. Always, always, he’s always punished. They scrape their nails on his thigh to draw his attention. It’s so gentle that it only makes his fear worse. Calm before a storm; he’s going to be hurt badly!

**_I’m scared_ **

But the pain never comes, even as Suzuki grits his chattering teeth and readies himself for a bleed. Instead, and with slow, soothing motions, the person traces their pattern into his skin. Once, twice, thrice, over the same area. It’s different than the times before—more personal. It feels like they’re speaking to him. _Good boy,_ they tell him, as if shushing him to sleep. _Good, good boy. Everything will be alright._ It gives him hope he doesn’t want but desperately needs.

A loving, tender kiss is brushed against his hair. Suzuki chases the affection with a pitifully breathless whimper, raising his head. A tear leaks from his left eye. He doesn’t deserve the love, the validation; he knows, but he can’t stop himself from pleading for it. Another kiss is gifted to him. Then again, and again, each touch unwinding the tangled mess of his stomach.

Suzuki loosens his hold on their shirt after what has to be a dozen kisses and twenty traced patterns. They meaningfully pat his thigh to remind him of the kid-shaped mass of worry behind him, then trace another pattern into his skin for good measure. It supplies his addled mind with fickle words to fill the long silence.

 _“Y-Yes, I’m just…”_ Suzuki cringes at his nasally voice but forces himself to keep talking. He sniffs wetly. _“Looking for something.”_

 _“Looking for something?”_ Kenneth doesn’t sound convinced in the slightest. _“Do you need help?”_ A soft thud; Kenneth had jumped off the couch!

 _“No! I mean. It’s okay, I...”_ Suzuki silently panics. The person’s fingers slip from his hole with a squelch, leaving a cold, cold void. A bolt of hurt stabs his heart, but they ease him back by pressing their nose into his hair. They wipe their fingers clean on his back. Suzuki feels their hand slide off his body. There’s a quiet shuffling before a rectangular object is hit against his thigh. Confusion takes the place of hurt. It hits him again, more purposely, when he doesn’t move. Finally, after two seconds, Suzuki gets the memo. Good timing, too, because Kenneth’s quiet footsteps were steadily heading towards him. _“I-I found it!”_

 _“You found it?”_ Kenneth sounds so confused that it’s kind of funny. It reminds him of Michael’s confused “crikey” when he reenacted the scene of Hawaiian natives stabbing James Cook with a spear. The memory relieves much of the stress weighing Suzuki’s mind down.

_Move, move, need to move fast. Sonic!_

Suzuki switches the hand holding the blanket and slides his right hand down to take hold of his phone. He uses that movement as a distraction to discreetly wipe his eyes dry with his left sleeve, and he keeps his eyes shut. Then, in one swift and shaky motion, he flips his body around to deposit his butt in their lap. The blanket suspends in mid-air during his spin and falls conveniently once he’s situated. He snuggles into their chest, heart bursting with warmth when they securely wrap their arms around his waist as soon as he’s settled. His legs feel loved atop theirs. There was no reason to fear! Not even the cold and damp spots of semen-soaked cloth and his numb legs could distract him from their warmth. A proud, approving kiss is pressed to the top of his head. _Good boy._

The praise makes him giddy.

 _“Yes, my phone!”_ Suzuki holds the blanket up to his chest with his left hand and shoots his right hand out into the air. His phone glints in the screenlight. He hopes it draws attention away from his glistening nostrils and puffy eyes. Kenneth stands a mere few feet away.

The boy blinks. _“Oh,”_ he says, just as confused as he was the last time he’d spoken.

And before he can say anything else, Suzuki butts in with, _“Aren’t you going to change the movie?”_ His tone is as sweet as it was when he’d spoken to Aunt Emi in the morning.

Kenneth blinks again. Then, his eyes widen in realization. He turns to see his three siblings staring at him expectantly. After three awkward seconds, he turns back to see Suzuki staring at him expectantly too.

 _“Oh,”_ Kenneth says. A pause of processing. Then the boy nods like a warrior preparing for battle. _“I will do it for the other movies too. Leave it up to me!”_

 _“Thank you,”_ Suzuki says softly, with a half-faked smile. His heart is beating so rapidly he’s sure the kids can hear it. What he’s not sure of is if it’s adrenaline or apprehension urging blood through his veins; whether or not the bulge caught between the cleft of his butt is pulsating; whether or not he wants to continue after this close of a call.

 _Oh my god,_ Suzuki thinks as the person’s very, very amused grin digs into his scalp. He watches dumbfoundedly as Kenneth reaches for the remote and flicks through Netflix. The boy doesn’t turn around once to ask him anything else. Within moments, the other siblings’ conversation revitalized, seemingly understanding that Suzuki didn’t need any assistance. _I can’t believe we actually..._

He tilts his head back into the person’s neck, speechless. They pat his tummy playfully. _See? Everything’s alright._ Suzuki stifles a little giggle.

 

**3:52 PM, Second Movie**

“Sir,” Suzuki breathes out. Their fingers pause and give his shaft a questioning rub, hitching his breath. It’s a pleasurable sensation; more of a curious fondle than a lascivious attack. If anything the warmth of their hand is a comforting feeling in his cold sweat. He guesses that they must be testing the waters, see if he’s going to resist or not. Or no, maybe resist isn’t the right word. They should know he won’t resist anything they do to him so long as it doesn’t kill him. He’s willing to take it all: pain, pleasure, love, hurt. Maybe they are only testing how eager he is, how much he’ll beg for more, how little they can do before he decides it’s not enough.

Suzuki swallows at the rekindling lick of fire that warms his insides. He wishes he could hold onto this awareness he has after every adrenaline rush. This calm and this clarity, it makes him perceptive to the smallest, or biggest, of things that make him happiest:

The way the person’s hand coaxes his body to relax by resting on his thigh, intimate and reassuring. The way their scent coats him in warm fragrance and musk. The way their heart beats ever so faintly against his left shoulder blade. The way their mouth remains poised to give his head a kiss every time he does something right. The way they’re so confident and authoritative, like all he needs is to just do as he’s told and he’ll be alright, like they’ll answer to any of his worries and ease all of his confusion. Like they won’t control him, only guide him; like they won’t abandon him, only give him space. Like everything they do has a reason, and everything they make him do is acknowledged.

And it’s because of all these little big things that Suzuki leans his head back onto their shoulder, lolling it to the side so as to expose his neck. He feels them swallow from the top of his head, and tingly warm pleasure oozes into his belly. They like his body, and they like it when he presents it to them. Suzuki has never felt insecure before this entire situation. He hates the feeling of it. But somehow the knowledge that he’s appreciated and loved and _wanted_ makes all of his pain and terror worthwhile. He’s a good boy, that’s why; he’s a good, good boy.

He watches the movie for only a few seconds more before sliding his gaze to the children. All of them have awestruck eyes and parted mouths, save for Keith who has his thumb stuck in it. Ayako steadily picks up one popcorn with two fingers and places it in her dainty mouth, robotically, and chews silently so as to not disturb the movie’s immersion. Beautiful, so full of warmth and purity.

He closes his eyes and lays back into the person’s chest. They seem to open their arms wider to receive his weight, and he comfortably snuggles up. He wonders what it is that he wants from all this. Is it pleasure? Is it love? Is it attention?

The person begins to run their left hand up and down his thigh, dipping their calloused fingers into the crevice between his soft penis and muscle. He spreads his legs to grant them better access.

He wishes he could have this kind of level-headed assessment of himself all the time. He’s a smart student, a smart boy, and he knows that what he’s doing is wrong. He’s being corrupted. _Been_ corrupted, maybe, because his path down the wrong way began the very first night when he succumbed to his rapist.

The person rubs curiously fondles his sac, and Suzuki’s fingers twitch at the low hum of pleasure.

Had it been violent and forceful, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten as attached. Had he not been treated tenderly during and in between the overwhelming assaults on his senses, maybe he wouldn’t have chased after the pleasure he felt. Maybe if they hadn’t raped him in the same room as his parents, it wouldn’t have been as exciting. Maybe he wouldn’t have developed such a depraved fetish.

The thought tickles his mind with a vivid, vivid memory, one that fills his ears with the creaking of bed springs and wetness on his feet. He breathes out a wispy moan as the person begins to massage a sensitive area beneath his crown.

He now leads such a vastly different life from his friends. It scares him, really, but right now he feels nothing. Not pain, not anger, not fear. Sadness, maybe, but _emptiness_ describes what he’s feeling more accurately. Emptiness. Not of the bad kind that leaves a bleeding hole in his chest. It’s more like he’s floating; to and from where he’s not sure of. But it’s identical to the feeling of awe he’d felt while watching the dust float in light when he was younger, but instead of awe it’s just… nothing. This kind of barely retrospective, nostalgic feeling of wistfulness makes it so easy for him to ruminate on his life; like he’s a bystander or more probably a scientist appraising his own decisions, analyzing every detail without bias.

He’s half-hard now. The person begins to jerk him off in small, rotating wrist movements. His earlier ejaculation provides enough lubrication for him to bite his lip, the slickness coiling a loose wire around his gut.

His body is in one area, his mind in another. He wonders whether this kind of thing will ever stop. These highs and lows, manic episodes of all-tethering joy and steep falls of instability and crying, fear, panic, terror—will it ever stop? These moments of clarity when his mind and body goes back to their equilibrium after those peaks of emotion, will they ever answer all of his questions? Will they ever ease all of his worries? This sickening pleasure that makes him forget everything, that grabs onto him and drags him into addiction—will he ever get tired of it?

A drop of pre-cum oozes from his slit, but the person doesn’t move to gather it. Instead, they wait until it trickles down his glans and to his shaft to smear it underneath his protruding crown. Suzuki stifles a quiet whimper, tensing his thighs. He starts to gyrate into their hand and onto their bulge, in tandem with the circular motions of their wrists.

He will never lead a normal life after this. His friends will find lovers, boyfriends, girlfriends, or maybe they’ll remain by themselves. But he won’t, _can’t._ He’s gotten too deep in a hole he doesn’t want to get out of. Pleasure, so much pleasure, is one thing; but the tenderness? The love? He doesn’t want it from anyone but them. He could spend his years chasing cock like a slut, but he’ll be lonely; so so lonely. He could spend years in love and married to someone normal, someone who won’t force him down and use him like a toy, someone who treats him so gently in bed and gives him all the tenderness he wants and needs, someone who won’t fuck him into the mattress while their child cries in the crib right next to them—

“..nhgh…” Suzuki can’t help the mewl that leaks from his throat at the invasive thought. The person uses their thumb to collect the drops of pre-cum that drooled from his slit, spreading it around his glans with an inaudible slick noise. His breath noticeably falters and trembles as the wire coils tighter around his gut. The person keeps rubbing his glans until he’s fully hard, and it’s difficult to keep thinking clearly.

But he’d be unsatisfied, chasing after pleasure he’ll never get. He’s glad he doesn’t need to focus on school to do well in it, can’t imagine having to split his attention between his situation and his studies. He can’t imagine having to listen to Lewis’ lectures while clenching his hole over and over again as he thinks of the cock that drove into him and nearly broke his waist. He can’t imagine having to suck on his own fingers in the bathroom while he masturbates and cums into the school toilet, keeping his mouth shut and his slick pre-cum quiet as other kids come in during their break. He can’t imagine his friends worrying about their exams while he worries about how unsatisfying his fingers are compared to the thick girth that pulsated deep inside of him, that messed and stirred up his insides until all that was coming out of his slit was clear, clear, runny liquid.

The person is still rubbing his glans, dutifully ignoring his throbbing slit. They rub their thumb exceedingly close to the widened and stretched opening—stretched because of how aggressively they’d played with it the night before—and it’s so close that their nail just barely skims it with every rub. Suzuki rocks his hips back and forth, back and forth, hoping that it catches their nail in his meatus. He knows how good it feels, how fast it will make him come. He knows how loud the shlick noise will be once he orgasms, and he knows the person will keep rubbing him through it. He knows how hard he will have to try to keep himself quiet, and it only makes him more excited. He wants to feel the thrill.

He hopes that his steadily discharging pre-cum makes their thumb slip and slide right into his slit, that it does it at the perfect moment when his hips grind downwards, that it causes their nail to dig into his urethra. The entirety of Suzuki’s cock throbs at the prospect. His breathing is shallow and high. But the person’s thumb is careful, and its movements are measured and in rhythm. It only rubs his slick into his glans, massaging him, edging him.

“Please,” he breathes, tears slipping from his closed eyes. He’s scared, so so afraid. He doesn’t know who they are, what they are, what they want. He doesn’t know if it’s just him who intends to keep this exchange forever, whether it’s just him being used and he’s getting attached for no reason, whether it’s love or just sex. He doesn’t know why he was raped that first night, he doesn’t know why he let it get to this point. Should he have stopped? _Could_ he have stopped? “Please, please…”

He doesn’t know what he’s begging for. Is he begging to come, or is he begging for them to stay? He swallows his small snivels, exhaling in a rush when the person’s thumb pad glides over to his slit. It plugs him up, rubbing his opening in a circle. His pre-cum is webby and thick. There’s an audible squishing of fluid in the room now, and his breaths become pleasured moans.

“Please,” he breathes out again, because he’s so close, he’s so close. He’s so close to finishing his sentence, begging for them to stay with him, begging for them to keep going, begging for them to just pin him to the screen and fuck him senseless in front of the children. He wonders and wonders how he’s going to tell his parents and friends: _I love being forced into orgasm._ Then he wonders how he’s going to keep his life separate from this, because he’s never going to tell anyone. This is a secret for him to keep. “Please…”

Suzuki stills his tired hips and lays his head back on their shoulder, exhausted. The person doesn’t stop rubbing him, and his toes curl with the frustrating rhythm, but he doesn’t mind it. It keeps him on the teetering edge of losing his mind, right before his urethra forces out the seminal fluid built up in his sac, right before his breathy moans turn into a choked scream. He’s so aroused that all he can think about is the pulsating of his cock and the bulge pressing into his exposed anus. How easy it would be to just unzip their pants, rip their underwear, and spread apart his hole. He was only stretched by two fingers, but that should be enough. He wants to feel the burn of their girth, wants to feel every single nub squeeze past his rim. He’s sure it’ll make the person feel good, too.

The wet noises of his cock are louder now, and Suzuki focuses on it. A crash of sensation makes him mewl, his prostate tingling and throbbing with memory of being squashed and prodded and rubbed and slammed into. He squeezes his legs together, his pleasure heightening to a point where just _one_ more rub would set him off and he would splurt all over the underside of the blanket, but the person stills their thumb. In an instant the moment is gone, and Suzuki sags downwards, twitching as if he had orgasmed anyway. The person resumes their rubbing, and Suzuki flinches at the overstimulation.

“Please,” he whispers. He needs it, this orgasm, this catharsis. He opens his bleary eyes to the movie, and out of habit he slides his gaze to the children. They look as happy as the last time he’d seen them, smiling and wide-eyed. It fills him with so much emotion that he squeezes his eyes shut as a new wave of tears streams down his cheeks. He’s so _scared._ He doesn’t know anything; for the second time in his life, he doesn’t know anything, and nobody ever tells him what’s going on. Nobody _can_ tell him what’s going on right now. What is it that they want? What is it that _he_ wants? Orgasm, he wants to orgasm, he just wants to forget

“Please love me,” he sobs quietly instead, voice broken and small. The person’s thumb stills, as if in surprise, and their nose presses a bit curiously into his hair. And he’s stupid, he knows he’s stupid, because it isn’t like he was ever neglected as a child. He was loved by his parents, given gifts that he still cherishes, supported and needed and appreciated. But it was never enough for his frail and confused life, everything changed so quickly and he never got used to it. He has friends, but they don’t give him the same kind of comfort. His parents saw his happiness with Michael and Julie and wrote it off that he was out of childhood, that he was fine and recovering, and he wasn’t, he isn’t, he isn’t, and he just— “Please, please, please just love me.”

Suzuki turns his head to dry the left side of his face on their shirt, wetting it with his tears. The person withdraws their hand from his aching penis, gently curling an arm around his waist. He shudders out a breath at the motion, leaning into their chest with his dear life. It’s a suitable answer for his plea. He’s too afraid to ask for anything else. The person croons, barely audible, into his hair, just for him to hear. It’s low in their throat, soothingly deep and gentle, more vibration than sound, and they keep on until his hiccuping cries quiet. And then he huffs out a laugh in a moment of mature clarity; a derisive and silly, bitter kind of laugh, because he realizes that he’s probably cried more in the past two days than he has in his entire life.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, voice hoarse, not caring if they can understand him or not. It’s the only thing he can say that won’t shatter his remaining dignity any further. Telling them that he loves to cry in their lap because he never got physically comforted by his parents seems a bit too far, even for him. His nose feels gross and wet, but he refrains from sniffling. The kids would be alerted to his distress otherwise. “I didn’t mean to cry.”

The person’s other hand, their left hand, trails up his chest and to his chin. Their fingers curl underneath his jawline and tilt his head up, up, up, then tilt it towards their face. Suzuki luckily shuts his tired eyes before he catches a glimpse. His neck strains a bit in this position, but the pain is easily made up for when the person gives him a sweet, sweet kiss. They lovingly coax his mouth open with their tongue, then take the lead and dip their tongue into his cavern. Suzuki didn’t notice it before, but their mouth tastes like peppermint and heat. He makes note of that for later. The tension in his body melts away from the kiss, and his eyes flutter blindly as he tries to mimic what their tongue does.

Their right arm withdraws from his waist, letting him move his body so it’s easier for them to kiss. He twists only so far before their hand wraps around his forgotten cock. His surprised moan is licked into their mouth, and his nose whistles with a high breath. The person smiles, then, and he can feel their lips curve. Out of instinct he tilts his head to the side, deepening the kiss, and he swipes his tongue over their teeth. Their canines prick his tongue, and the taste of blood edges into the mintiness. He does it again just to feel their fingers twitch on his cock. He has the faint realization that the movie is playing at a louder volume than before, or maybe they’re just being quieter. Either way, he takes advantage of it, kissing them wetly with his tongue. Suzuki thinks he’s gotten a lot better since their first kiss.

The person takes advantage of the volume level too. They go back to jerking him with small wrist movements, identical to how they did on that first night, and Suzuki lets himself make soft noises into their mouth. They graciously mute him with their skilled tongue, so well that he feels spare tears slip down his face. _It feels so good._ The blanket traps him in uncomfortable heat, but he’d rather be warm than exposed. It insulates all of the squishing noises his little cock is making, giving the person leeway to fiddle with it as they want.

Suzuki jolts and whimpers when the person’s fingers rub his tip _just_ right. Their index finger curls over his slit, and its ridges knead the overly sensitive opening, left to right, left to right. Their thumb rounds his crown, touching their index finger’s nail. Its calloused pad plays with his protruding head, rubbing him painfully good, up and down, up and down. He feels another finger—most likely their middle finger—touch him next to their index. The three fingers trap his glans in a constantly moving cage, spreading his pre-cum around and around like clockwork. Like a corkscrew, or like they were using his tip as a juicer for an orange. Suzuki, unable to keep his hips from jerking away and into their hand, breaks the kiss with a wet smack. He doesn’t pay any mind to the sound, too focused on steadying his breathing and holding back his noises.

“I’m going to c-come,” his voice is urgent and breathless. The person only hums and continues to move their fingers in the same rhythm as if they didn’t hear him. The helplessness he feels only feeds his pleasure. Suzuki lets the blanket fall as he slides his right hand down to their wrist, pushing at it as a means to get them to wait. It doesn’t budge. It gets harder and harder to breathe and keep his meek noises in check the longer the person continues their sickeningly calm movements.

Unconsciously he turns to completely face their chest, the blanket providing cushion for his knees so his movement isn’t as pronounced. The person follows his movement, and without the blanket the squishy noises of his pre-cum are even louder. Suzuki squeezes his legs together and he can’t hold on, it feels so good and he’s so _wet_ god the kids can hear it can’t they; there’s no way they can’t; the person’s fingers give his glistening red tip one final twist, then stop. There’s a moment of peace, and his cock twitches. He lets out a soft, confused noise as his penis aches with release. They squeeze his tip with a chuckle, as if coaxing a little child to come out and play, and the wet noise it makes is astonishingly loud and oh _god I’m comingcomin—_

“C-Co— _hgh!”_ Suzuki slaps his left hand over his mouth as his body suddenly tenses up, mind still aware of the movie playing behind him. His muscles contract as his urethra forces out squirts of semen that fill the waiting cage of their fingers. He shudders through his orgasm, eyes fluttering and flickering, toes curling and uncurling. He struggles to breathe through his nose, his throat spasming with noises he muffles using his hand. _Have to be quiet._ His hips jerk forwards as his orgasm ticks by, prompting the person to self-indulgently rub his squirting slit _—AGAIN—_ and Suzuki’s eyes roll back as a secondary orgasm forces its way up his urethra at the touch. An apologetic kiss is pressed to his neck, but the person chuckles as if they’re not apologetic at all. It’s torturous pleasure, having to be so aware of the things around him as his urethra oozes out what seems to be a never-ending stream of fluid. His little cock jumps with each miniature spurt of semen.

 _“Two,”_ the person croons into the shell of his ear. Suzuki only vaguely registers it— _two?—_ before the person’s fingers start to rub his still-discharging cock in that same juicing motion. For a moment, there’s only the sounds of his slick cum and pre-cum, surely frothing with how they’re mixing it on his glans. He shudders at the sound, trying to gauge its volume against the movie’s, but then his body registers that the stimulation is _too much._ They rub and rub him, and the noise is so wet and lewd and _it feels so good;_ He flinches away, pushing at their wrist in earnest;

“Mgh!” Suzuki makes a choked noise behind his hand when the person repositions their hand and scratches his slit in warning. _Don’t push away._ He doesn’t listen to them, instead trying to escape from their fingers, which now rub at his meatus as if petting him. Their thumb presses down and slides, then lifts, and it repeats that over and over, thumbing his opening. He desperately pushes at their wrist again because he’s going to lose his mind—but their thumb only rubs him in a circle, again and again, plugging up his widened slit. The slick noises are deafening to his ears, and so are his desperate and shallow breaths, and he wonders how the kids can’t hear him. Suzuki has the faint realization that he’s moving his hips in tandem with their thumb, but he doesn’t know if he’s running away or chasing after the stimulation, he just knows it’s too much and it’s so good and he’s wet like a girl, all—

 _“His mom is pretty!”_ Ayako pipes up. Suzuki feels his entire body tense in apprehension as his mind catches up to what she said. The person continues touching him as if she didn’t say anything; rubbing their calloused thumb pad into his slit, circling the opening with their nail, jerking him a few times, not seeming to care about Suzuki’s desperate attempts at pushing them away, ignoring his silent plea as he presses his cheek to their head, chuckling when his toes curl and his hole clenches and tears drip down his face because he’s going to come, again he’s going to come he’s going to come _comingcomingoh my god—_

 _“That’s his mom?”_ Amano asks in confusion as Suzuki convulses into orgasm, throat clogging with gagging noises as his cock jumps and pulses but no liquid comes out. The person clicks their tongue in dissatisfaction and rubs him through his convulsions, methodically dragging their nail up from the base of his shaft and ending at his slit, where they dig their nail in using wiggling motions. Suzuki’s rolled-back eyes well with tears, tears that the person _has_ to feel because it wets their hair and drips down his hand and neck. He gives up on trying to push their hand away and instead grasps onto their left bicep. His chest uselessly heaves as his lungs fill with no air. They hum their approval into his neck; _good boy, just take it;_ and his toes are curled and his pelvis is twisting and writhing; _“She doesn’t look like his mom.”_

 _“They said it’s his mom,”_ Kenneth says, just barely above the sounds of Suzuki’s little wet penis and the shallow creaking of the recliner as he violently shakes. It’s only then that he realizes how exposed he must be: no blanket, on his knees, puffy hole clenching and unclenching as something invisible tortures his moist cock, as he writhes in what has to be pain and muffles his pleasure-filled noises behind his hand. The shame only heightens his pleasure, and he sobs as quietly as he can as he starts to gyrate into their hand, unable to stop himself from involuntarily jerking away when it becomes too much.

_shlickshlickshlickshlick “They did? When?” shlickschlopsquish_

Suzuki keens highly behind his fingers as his cock finally splurts out thin seminal fluid. There’s only two spurts of a miniscule amount, but the person hums in approval anyway. They massage it into his tip, and excess amounts drip down his shaft and onto their clothing. _“When that dragon came in, I think.”_

 _“Three,”_ they purr into his ear. They relent but only slightly. Suzuki’s vision is blurred with tears and he wouldn’t be able to see the person’s face even if he pulled back. His muscles ache and quiver; his fingers no longer actively pressing against his mouth. The person continues to knead his flaccid cock, enclosing it in a fist to stroke him slowly, from base to tip. Hiccuped moans escape his throat; and his head is fuzzy and disoriented, he can’t breathe, and it feels _exactly_ like it did the first night when he was milked, _exactly_ like it did the night before, and it feels good! _it feels so good more please more_

 _“A-Amazing,”_ he breathes in a daze, slipping into his native tongue, spreading his unintentionally squeezed legs. He squeezes them together again not even a second later as the person’s fingers close over his glans, but he forces himself to spread. He hears an amused chuckle rumble by his ear when he starts to fuck their fist with quivering thighs. It’s an uneven rhythm, slow and jumpy, but the person lets him do as he wants. He lets his left hand fall to grip their right shoulder for leverage, and he has to bite his lip to hold back his noises.

 

**4:44 PM, Second Movie**

“Toothless _is amazing!”_ Kenneth exclaims, utterly in awe. Suzuki makes a pitiful noise in the back of his throat as a third finger squeezes past his rim. It gives his prostate one greeting caress, to which he jolts and whimpers, before probing around elsewhere. He hears Keith clap his hands as a show of enthusiasm when a dragon—probably Toothless—roars and boasts.

“No more,” he pleads quietly, voice high and scratchy. The person only hums and flicks his tip with their index finger. There’s a resounding thwack that hopefully only he and the person can hear, and they do it again just to hear it once more. Suzuki bites down on his lips to mute the half-pained, half-ecstasy noise that escapes his throat. He feels a trail of blood ooze from where his teeth sinks into his flesh, trickling down and mixing with his bloody, drool-coated chin.

The person gives him a wiggle of their fingers, grazing his prostate. It feels so _good,_ like they’re ghosting at his slit from inside him, stretching him in preparation for their cock. He grinds back helplessly, _desperately_ onto their fingers, spreading his numb, quivering legs further apart. The person gives his frenulum an approving rub, and Suzuki breath hitches as his thighs tense. He stills his grinding to tether off his teetering orgasm, surrealistically feeling his semen bubble up in his urethra, edging himself because if he comes—if he _comes_ then he’s going to…!

“..nghuu…” but his muscles are too weak to hold off his orgasm. Pitiful drops of runny, runny liquid, like urine, dribbles out of his open and abused slit. His eyes seem permanently rolled back as shudders wrack his body. He looks as if he’s sitting on their hand, facing them, except their fingers hold him up by wedging inside of him.The person withdraws their thumb from his penis to let his fluid trickle down his shaft and to his scrotum, collecting onto the wrist whose fingers begin to move in his ass, his body shuddering uselessly throughout it all;

 _“Nine,”_ and he shakes and shakes as the person’s fingers start to rub his prostate. It’s a gentle pressure, almost teasing, and he twitches because it’s the only thing he can do. His mind flickers from conscious to unconscious, ears filling with the squelching noises of his moist hole as they cycle their three finger pads on his prostate, taking turns to prod his sweet spot again and again;

“S-Stop,” he whimpers, meek and feeble. His voice is wobbly with tears. “Sto- _hng—please,_ stop.”

But they continue as if he isn’t begging into their ear, heaving and urgent. He can feel their smirk through the dark. They must know that he secretly loves this; this feeling of utter submission. Even so he frailly shoves at their shoulders, begging to let him go. Their thumb only goes back to his glans to smear his slick all around. They knead him everywhere, from his frenulum to underneath his protruding head to the inside of his urethra, gathering fluid and trying to pour it back inside him. His mouth opens in a silent scream as he shudders into a dry orgasm. He flinches backwards when the sensation is repeated, simultaneously pushing their fingers deeper into his ass and digging them into his sweet spot. A weak cry slips past his lips. He jerks forward, then, away from the fingers buried in his hole; but they’re assaulting him on both sides, his path of escape blocked on both ends.

He’s stuck twitching and jerking as each of their hands plays with him. Their fingers are pruned from how wet he is and how long they’ve been playing with him. He wonders, in the back of his mind, if using him like this makes them feel good. If making him break and orgasm again and again gives them pleasure. His belly tingles at the prospect. A gentle, loving kiss is pressed to his neck, almost a confirmation to his thoughts. He’s unable to wonder whether it was intended as one, though, because their fingers press meaningfully into his prostate, arching his back and bringing him closer to them. Several tears slip from his eyes, a broken _uh!_ escaping his throat. His bones groan in protest at the movement. The person soothes him by rubbing his frenulum around and around.

Suzuki can barely hold in his mewls as their fingers give it to him nice and slow. They thrust into his hole with a slow, languid spread of their fingers, seemingly in no rush at all. He falls limp atop their hand, muscles tired from non-stop tension and contraction. Their fingers sink ever so deeper into him, and his breaths come out as shallow whistles. His arms weakly wrap around their neck, his elbows resting on their shoulders. He shakily leans his weight onto them. At this point, Suzuki doesn’t think he’d have the strength to panic if Kenneth were to just turn his head and feast his eyes upon this debauchery. He’d just have to take it: all the shame and humiliation, all the questions; _where are your pants? Why is your… hole so stretched, Haru-nii? Why are you crying? Are you okay? Does it hurt? Why is the seat so wet? Should I call an ambulance? 911? Your weewee looks like it’s crying—_

Suzuki whimpers at the onslaught of scenarios despite himself, his half-hard cock twitching in the person’s fingers. It doesn’t escape their attention. Their breathy chuckle rumbles through his shivering body, and he loves it. He loves everything about it, from the way it blossoms a bloom of warmth in his chest to the way it heats his cheeks; the way it reminds him of previous encounters; the way it validates him as a person. He loves that it means he’s paid attention to, that he’s enjoyed, that they _like_ him. The combination of tenderness and sex washes over him like a tsunami. His mouth opens in a silent moan as the person grinds the pads of their fingers into his sweet spot, urging on his frothing orgasm; he can _feel_ them smile at him with his eyes closed, the _shlickshlickshlick_ of their fingers on his cock and the _squishsquishsquish_ of their fingers in his ass a rhythmic, coordinated— _amazingamazingamazingi’mcomingcomingcom_

“C-Com—againngh,” he clenches his hole around their fingers as a substitute for tensing his thighs. He trembles weakly as his cock sputters out three jets of semen then stops.

 _“Ten,”_ they murmur lovingly into his neck, kissing the hickey they’d given him earlier. They clearly acknowledged his orgasm, but their fingers prod at his sensitive zones as if nothing happened; as if he didn’t just spill out more of his seed into their wrinkled fingers, as if he didn’t drool into their hair. Suzuki grits his teeth as a means to stabilize himself, unable to stop his kegel muscles from contracting as he rides out his lengthened climax on top of their hand. It’s difficult to center himself when he can’t stop his body from chasing after more. The person isn’t any help either with the way they’re crooning—a bit smugly—into his neck as their fingers dutifully massage his prostate, urging more fluid to come out. They start using their thumb nail to play with his slit.

Eventually, he gives up on trying to keep himself aware of the world around him. He lets himself forget about the kids, the movie, his shame. He focuses on his pleasure and the person’s warmth, and he loses himself to decadence.

And Suzuki’s just about to come for the eleventh time when the fingers suddenly stop moving. He whines in dazed confusion, but they don’t do anything. In his lust-hazed mind, he shakily starts to ride their fingers to orgasm. He was so close, that’s why; just a bit more! The person seems a little taken aback if their intake of breath is anything to go by, but at this point Suzuki doesn’t care. All he can think about is their thick, thick fingers and their nails—he breathes a moan when one particular grind back scrapes two nails on his sweet spot; he continues that motion—and the _noise._ He wonders, in the back of his mind, if the reason the person seems so obsessed with touching him through orgasm is because of the wet noises it makes.

Suzuki withdraws his right hand from their shoulder, leaning all of his weight onto his left arm. He cranes his head up to rest his dirty chin on their head. He pants into their hair, batting away the stationary hand wrapped around his cock and replacing it with his. He clumsily mimics the person’s rubbing of his glans. He digs his thumb nail as far as he can into his urethra, until it’s almost painful, whimpering breathlessly into their hair. He flicks his thumb back and forth, like playing with a mini light switch, obsessing over the wet clicky sound it makes.

Suzuki feels a shuddering breath beneath him, and he wonders if they’re _looking._ He wonders if they’re staring right at his messy little cock in his tiny hand, watching him desperately try to please himself the same way they please him.

_Watch me watch me I’m yours_

A jet of fluid suddenly surges up his urethra, dribbling from his slit and past his thumb. He quivers at the sensation, an orgasm, but there’s more inside. He knows there’s more inside; he can feel it. He continues to dig and rub his nail insistently into his slit—religiously, violently, mindlessly—even as his hips jerk and his hole spasms through orgasm. He doesn’t hear the person swallow. All he hears is that repetitive squishing he’s making; he’s so glad he didn’t cut his nails yet, but it’s not enough not enough;

He withdraws his left hand, then, and has it join his right on his cock. He leans all of his weight forward, pressing his throat against their forehead, wobbling dangerously from side to side. He might slip, but he doesn’t care. The person helps hold him steady by his thigh, seemingly trying to calm him down by rubbing their pattern into his skin. Or maybe they’re trying to encourage him. Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter; he starts using his left hand by just rubbing his frenulum. Then he starts to scratch at his frenulum when it’s not enough. Another surge of fluid rides up his urethra, and he rubs himself through it, chasing after the louder squishing noise. The fluid doesn’t even have a chance to get past his thumb. He’s completely silent, save for his choppy shallow breaths and his wet cock. He’s nearly catatonic. His eyes are half-lidded and hazy.

There’s more, still some more. He brings his other thumb nail to his slit, digging it into the opening alongside his right. The person inhales a deep, shuddering breath at that. He doesn’t pay attention to it, instead focusing on how good his nails feel. He rubs his nails together inside his slit. The _slishslishslish_ is amazing, and he keeps doing it, half to get that bubbling liquid out of him and half to hear that noise again and again. It fills his ears, much louder than the movie behind him, much louder than his panting. He’s by long stopped moving his hips to grind onto their fingers; like this, they’re pressed to his prostate anyway.

Another surge of liquid, but more, there’s still more. The thumb on his thigh has gone still now. Maybe they’re entranced by the way his nails fit into the once small hole. He knows he is. He turns slightly to rest his cheek on their hair, tongue lolling out as he pants.

_You did this to me I’m yours_

The person’s body noticeably shudders in arousal. He’s—they’re—doing this to him so good, it’s so good so good so good. One of his index fingers—he doesn’t know which, doesn’t matter it feels good—moves to scratch at his frenulum as his thumbs vigorously play with his opening. The sound is deafening, so lewd and wet; it sounds like a bunch of moist bugs crawling all over each other and it’s _amazing so good;_ the person digs their nails painfully into his thigh. He can feel the final surge of liquid start to come up! Finally, finally, so he gives himself one last wiggle with his nails before spreading his slit open, and _ohnonono here it comes here it comeshereherehere_ and he lied, he can’t resist grinding his nails in because it just feels so good and he mindlessly giggles on top of their head—and his fingertips feel the first greeting of his ejaculate and _ohnononononoi’mgonnadie_

“..hehehe..uuu...” his body goes shock still as semen—or urine—spills liberally from his slit, washing past his squirming thumbs. His sweat-glistening body barely shivers with his explosive orgasm, the only movement coming from the fountain of runny liquid from his cock and his still-wriggling thumbs. His brows knit as his rolled-back eyes flicker with the last signs of conscious, his breathing barely detectable. But then they dig their nails into his thigh again, _hard,_ and he jolts back. It’s only then that he slips his fingers from his drooling slit. He starts to twitch, his muscles slowly coming back to life. He continues to twitch—almost like a dying bug—long after his cock has stopped discharging.

 _“E-Eleven…”_ he hears them murmur, voice thick and gravelly to the point that their words stutter. There’s a hint of wonder. He only twitches in response, cock spurting one last meek jet of ejaculate.

 

**12 Minutes Later**

Suzuki whines at their clear intention of pulling away. He wants to keep holding their hand! The person gently shushes him quiet, nuzzling their nose against his neck. They ease their fingers from his grip to caress his thigh. _Just wait._ He reluctantly, but obediently, shuts his mouth. They smile an amazed kind of smile into his skin. Suzuki’s a bit amazed too, actually, with how fast he recovered from doing… _that_ to himself. He shivers. He's glad the person's warmth has what he believes to be magical healing capabilities, else he'd have been put out of commission for hours. From something he did to  _himself!_

The person suddenly goes still beneath him, as if in concentration. He feels their head lower onto his neck as a show of hostility— _or worry?—_ and he’s somehow reminded of a cat lowering itself before pouncing. Suzuki finds himself concentrating as well, listening for any signs that they, or more accurately _he,_ had been heard. To his relief, the movie is still going strong, and the lack of electrified tension in the room is indicative of the children’s oblivion. What, then, are they looking for?

After what had to be more than two minutes, they snap out of their focused stance. They press a wet kiss to the piece of skin right beneath their mouth as a signal. It isn’t hard to figure out what they mean. Suzuki noticeably droops in sadness, but he lets them slip their fingers out of him. They do it one-by-one, each finger saying its farewell to his prostate with a retreating rub. He jumps and makes small _mh!_ noises even though he expects the second and third finger. He shivers at the caresses of cold as his hole is irreversibly—or at least he hopes so; he never wants to forget this—stretched and lubed. There’s a gaping void now, and he clenches around air just to remember what it felt like to be filled. His skin ripples with a shudder as a trickle of excess lube trails down his thigh.

“...No more?” He whispers softly. They only hum in response. Suzuki’s not sure what to take it as. He just hopes they don’t leave him. His legs are trembling to hold his weight up without their support. Both of their soiled hands cup his thighs and nudge him down onto their lap. He lands with a _pomf and_ squirms when he feels the wetness of his semen soaked into their clothing. He murmurs a quiet apology, pressing his forehead up against their shoulder. They only chortle into his hair, giving his head a kiss full of warmth. He’s in the same position as he was when this all started—legs slotted in the crevices of the recliner, spread apart on their lap, arms wrapped around their neck. It’s only now that he realizes the blanket is nowhere to be seen. Or more accurately, nowhere to be felt.

Their— _dry?—_ left hand travels up to his neck and presses its thumb to his throat. The feeling brings back many pleasurable memories. Suzuki has the fleeting thought that he wouldn’t mind getting choked by them at this point, then promptly flushes scarlet when the person huffs in amusement. He pulls away from their hand out of embarrassment. It seems that his squirming away was their intention in the first place—albeit he could’ve spared himself the embarrassment—and they gently force his chin straight. He hears movement on his left before a damp cloth wipes his chin clean of saliva and blood. He flinches away from the feeling at first, mind automatically assuming the worst. AKA, _are they wiping me with a piece of semen-soaked clothing?_

But at the person’s highly amused—and slightly offended—chuckle, he relaxes and lets himself be cleaned. He murmurs another sheepish apology. The person hums an exaggerated, dismissive, teasing, _I-don’t-believe-you_ tone, and Suzuki can’t help but giggle at it.

And it’s ridiculous, really. His body feels gross. Damp and sticky. His penis hurts, and so do his insides. His sweat makes his shirt cling to his body. His eyes are puffy. He smells of sex and semen and tears and snot. He came eleven times in the presence of children if the person’s counting was accurate—which he doubts. He thinks he came _way_ more than just eleven times. Even so, he’s content. He feels _happy._

The instant the cloth is brought away from his face, he seeks out their lips in a moment of gleeful gratitude. He whispers his plea for a kiss, parting his mouth for them to take. He knows he probably won’t be able to find their lips without bonking them with his forehead.

At his offering, the person tilts his chin up with their right hand—still holding the damp cloth—and seals his bitten lips with theirs. They take him slow and sensual, if not a bit excitedly by the way they keep licking at his wounded lips. He doesn’t mind it; in fact, their constant licking soothes the bleed. He’d bitten down too hard trying to hold his voice back. As he slips his tongue into their mouth to take initiative, their arms move to wrap around his waist. Their left hand caresses up and down his back. Suzuki thinks that he feels them move their hand in that familiar pattern of theirs. He wonders what it means. Is it an incantation? Magic?

Suzuki pauses. _Magic?_ A final thought clicks into place, but he’s kept from revelation when the person taps his back twice as a signal. He obediently breaks away from the kiss, licking blood-tinged saliva from his lips. He lowers his head. Without missing a beat, the person gives his forehead a sweet, praising kiss. _Good boy._ His cheeks heat from the feeling, and he giddily hides his face in the crook of their neck. _They knew what I wanted!_

He feels them press their nose into his hair and smile. Then, they take in a deep breath, one that cools his scalp and makes him self-conscious of what shampoo he uses. They exhale with an audible sigh, their body unwinding and sinking into the leather recliner. Suzuki fidgets, unsure if the action was negative or positive, but the person seems relaxed so maybe—

 **_“Good boy,”_ ** they purr into his sweaty hair, nuzzling him lazily. Suzuki’s mouth goes dry at the unexpected praise, fingers twitching once with shock and twice as a splurge of butterflies explodes in his stomach. He buries his warm cheeks deeper into their neck. He doesn’t know what to do with all of the energy in his body, spazzing out and overwhelming him because he’s been good! He’s been good! They _told_ him he’s good! Suzuki feels that same rush of elation as he did the night before, and not even the sound of yelling coming from the TV can deter him from his joy. He wonders if them talking to him is going to be a regular thing, or at least just the praise. Just the praise would be amazing, he loves their voice, _oh_ he got to hear their voice so much today! Sure, they were only saying numbers as they counted his orgasms—Suzuki shivers from a lick of remnant pleasure that definitely doesn’t escape their notice—but they spoke! They spoke to him!

_!!!_

He’s so caught up in his glee that he doesn’t notice the carefully brushed patterns into his skin, somehow easing the numbness of his legs and creaking of his bones. He only notices when the person’s fingers trail up his chest. The fingers turn into a palm, and they gently nudge him back. He follows their instruction without question, mind still bouncing back echoes of their voice. His chest feels cold when it’s not pressed to theirs, but he doesn’t mind.

It’s only when he scoots back that he realizes their bulge is still prominent beneath their pants. Their pants soaked with _his_ ejaculate. He opens his mouth to say something, a twinge of guilt seeping into his stance, but is silenced when their fingers tap his thigh. He shuts his mouth and waits for an order.

Not two seconds later, he feels fabric brush up against his thigh. Another tap. Suzuki grasps the cloth with his left hand in confusion. It takes a few moments of fondling before he realizes what it is. It’s his pants! Or at least that’s what he thinks it is. He twists the fabric in his fingers, feeling its heavyweight polyester and its scrunchy, elastic band. Yes, definitely his sweatpants. He wonders if his—yes, there’s his underwear inside too. Suddenly he’s reminded of his phone. Where’s his phone?

As if on cue, a rectangular object slaps against his thigh. He pauses, then gets hit with such a sense of deja vu that he giggles. He graciously takes his phone and places it on the recliner’s right armrest. He murmurs a quiet thank you. They rub his thigh lovingly in response, but then seem to remember themselves. They tap his skin a tad urgently.

Suzuki gets the hint, but he hesitates. How is he going to put on his pants without drawing attention to himself? They tap his thigh again, this time with three fingers. They trace their pattern into his skin as means of reassurance. _Don’t worry about it._

He dubiously nods. He can’t do much facing them, so he resolves to switch positions. With shaky legs and slight embarrassment, he carefully maneuvers his body around. He deposits himself in their lap and blinks open his eyes. He feels a familiar moisture seep into his skin, and he blushes at the feeling of the dampness combined with their bulge. The room is much brighter than he remembers. He squints his sight to check on the kids. Kenneth is sucking on an already dried-up Caprisun as he stares at the screen, enraptured. Ayako, Amano, and Keith look about the same as the last time he saw them, except this time Ayako has run out of popcorn. The movie seems to be in its final ten minutes.

Suzuki’s sight goes back to his hands as he fumbles with his clothing, sticking his hands through the holes of his underwear and pants to make sure they align. He holds the fabrics up to the screenlight just for extra precaution. It feels a little ridiculous, and he can’t help but huff a laugh at the feeling. He lowers his arms and glances at his legs. His chest warms with something akin to pride, and he smiles. Somehow he’s glad he’s smaller than most people. The sight of his pale legs atop their dark-colored pants strikes a sense of rightness in his gut.

He awkwardly bends his left leg to his chest and readies the corresponding garment holes. He shivers at the inaudible squish his hole makes at the bend. With a swish of fabric, his leg goes in surprisingly smoothly. He slides in his entire leg until it straightens out, then repeats the movement for his right. He’s successful, but his thighs and, most importantly, penis are left exposed and glistening in the light. He stares at his small, flaccid cock for a good twenty seconds, strangely fixated on how _abused_ it looks. His slit is even more widened now. There’s semi-dried dollops of semen sticking to his glans. An amused tap to his thigh has him blinking away and swallowing down his arousal.

But where does he go from here? He can’t finish sliding his pants to his waist while sitting down. He stares dumbly at his predicament. Then, he starts to shimmy the rest of his legs into his clothing. The recliner creaks with the movement. It works as well as he thought it would, and he quickly tires out of the repetitive motion. He wonders if he could get away with standing up and jumping his pants on. The kids would definitely notice, yes, but he thinks he should be able to play it off.

The person doesn’t agree with him. Instead, they slide both their hands beneath his butt, one on each cheek. There’s an awkward digging motion before his plump buttocks are firmly planted in their palms. Suzuki blinks in confusion; surely they aren’t going to finger him right now, especially since they’re making him put his clothes on— _oh;_

Suzuki mouth goes dry as he’s effortlessly lifted up from their lap, surely a whole foot in the air. Surely twelve inches. However, the position is strange. They lifted him up without support to his back, and his head cranes as it falls to their shoulder. He blinks dazedly at the screen lit ceiling. His eyes feel sore and puffy. His legs wave in the air before falling limp.

A surge of arousal makes his flaccid penis twitch in interest. Strong; they’re so strong! It makes him remember how helpless he was beneath them as he was forced to take their brutal pounding; how easily he was lifted and dropped onto their waiting cock as they stood not two feet away from his father; how crushing their hand had been when they silenced his cries as they milked him last night; how weak he’d been compared to the violent face-fucking they subjected him to.

He swallows and closes his eyes, willing his arousal to tamp down. He shakily slides his pants past his hardening shaft, snapping the elastic band loosely around the lower part of his hip bone. The moisture on his rim combined with dry fabric makes his breath go up a pitch. They lower him down, then, slowly and carefully. His hands instinctively grasp their forearms. Astonishingly, he doesn’t wobble as he’s let down, instead kept stable and still. The instant he’s set down onto their lap, their nose goes back to his head, nestling itself in his hair. Their arms wrap around his waist and encase him in a cocoon of warmth. He reddens at the innocent feeling, hoping they don’t notice how excited he got while getting lifted up with just _two hands._

The sly smirk he feels in his hair dashes away his hope, though. They playfully pat his sensitive crotch, taunting him. A surge of indignant embarrassment heats his cheeks and pouts his lips. He wriggles in their lap, remembering that day after school. The wriggling grinds his butt on their bulge. The person predictably hisses into his hair, and they dig their thumbs into the crooks of his thighs to still him. He laughs breathlessly, then, because it’s his win. 

And then he remembers that the person hasn’t orgasmed at all in the past two days. Or at least, hasn’t orgasmed with _him._ His happiness sours with envy and guilt, but he pushes the negative feelings away.

“...”

Actually, turns out it’s not enough for him to just push it away.

He isn’t sure what prompts him to close his eyes and twist his body towards their face. He just knows that he does it without thinking, and the person waits expectantly for him to speak. He can tell by the way they pull their head back from his hair, the way they move their hands from his thighs to his waist, the way they encourage him with a rubbing thumb that tickles. Maybe it’s jealousy that fed his movement. Maybe he’s just desperate to please them. He doesn’t know. And he doesn’t know why he, in the most innocent voice he’s ever heard himself speak in, asks:

“You aren’t going to fuck me?”

The person’s breathing falters with a sharp intake of breath. Suzuki surrealistically feels their bulge throb beneath his buttocks through his and their pants. He waits for a response, confused as to why they seem so taken aback. There’s neither a chuckle nor a nuzzle of amusement. But then he realizes what he’d just said—in the same voice he used when asking what movie Kenneth wanted to watch, as if getting fucked was as natural and unquestionable as gravity—and promptly turns and buries his face in his hands. Almost immediately the person pulls him in close, smothering him in warmth. They purr into his hair, folding him forward so he leans over his knees. Their hands run over his belly and chest, warming every part of his body. It feeds a dull flame of arousal that makes him tremble and clench his hole. It bunches up the fabric of his underwear uncomfortably, but it’s a welcome friction. Their chest encases the entirety of his back.

They’re pleased with him, that’s for sure. It sends globs of dopey pleasure through his system. But he’s _embarrassed!_ Did he really have to say it like that? He wonders what happened to his modesty. Maybe it got dashed away when he started fantasizing about getting rammed while the kids had a marathon. Or maybe it was when he sucked them off after school. Maybe it was when he came in the presence of his conscious father, or when he came in the presence of his _un_ conscious parents. Maybe it was when he started jerking himself off until he squirted. Or maybe he was never modest at all. He wonders if it’s his parents’ fault that he turned out like this. A deeply buried memory suddenly comes to the forefront of his mind.

Suzuki shudders, and he’s not sure if it’s in disgust or arousal. The thought sobers him up enough to withdraw his hands from his face. The person has calmed their loving attack, now settling for peppering little kisses intermittently on his scalp, brushing their nose against his surprisingly dry and non-crusty hair. He wonders if sweat dries that quickly, but he doesn’t plan on thinking too hard about it. He focuses his sight—his eyes feel a little better too—forwards. The movie is ending, he realizes. On the screen, Hiccup delivers what seems to be his final voiced-over monologue as the camera pans over the Island of Berk.

He wonders what time it is. He gropes for his phone with his right hand. Once in his grasp, he brings it to his face, pressing the power button. The light is bright and blinding, and it takes a few moments for his slightly sore eyes to adjust.

**17:28**

**Saturday, March 9**

If he remembers correctly, it’s been three hours since the marathon started. That means he still has nearly two hours left! The knowledge excites him more than it should. But if there are still so many hours left, why did they tell him to dress?

Maybe they’re going to do something to him with his clothes on? A lick of arousal makes him shiver.

Or maybe they just want to cuddle and actually watch the movie? His stomach does a flip as his heart flutters.

Suzuki has the belated realization that he wouldn’t mind either of the two pathways. They’re still hard, though, so he guesses that the sexual route is more probable. He boldly wiggles again to grind his butt against their crotch, and they growl a low warning that would’ve been scary if not for the breaths of laughter that come after it. It fills him with a giddy rush of playfulness. His phone screen blacks out from inactivity, and he lowers it from his face.

He’s partly surprised to see the Netflix search screen broadcasted on the TV. He didn’t even notice the movie end. The kids probably skipped the rolling credits, then. He watches as Kenneth painstakingly taps in the title of the last movie. Suzuki has the strangest feeling of worry, something that grips him with tiny little suckers at the back of his mind and tingles abstract nerves in his body. He knits his brows at the feeling, unconsciously pressing his phone into his lap. The person caresses his wrist at the same time Kenneth says:

_“I can’t find the last movie.”_

Suzuki blinks as Kenneth automatically looks to him for help. _“It’s not there?”_

Kenneth shakes his head. The other siblings go quiet and observe what’s going on. Suzuki has the fleeting thought that Aunt Emi must be a lucky mother to have such well-behaved children, but then again their behavior is probably to be attributed to their stern father. Much like his is, in a way. Suzuki’s mood withers imperceptibly.

 _“Maybe it’s not on_ Netflix _yet. Let me check,”_ he says, pulling his right wrist from the person’s caressing fingers and lifting his phone from his lap. A sense of loneliness makes him reach for them with his left hand, though. They give his hair a smiling kiss when he shyly laces his fingers with theirs. Their fingers loosely intertwine until the person squeezes him. Their hand is as warm as it was last time, and he finds it difficult to focus on what he originally planned to do. He purses his lips to hide his smile. If the person really is invisible to the kids, he wonders if the low lighting makes it difficult to see his strange hand position.

It’s only after he unlocks his phone with Touch ID and taps on the Chrome app that he remembers he needs two hands to type. But he doesn’t want to let go of their hand…

The person chuckles, easing their fingers from his hold. They tap his left wrist with their index and middle fingers, almost saying _this is more important._ Suzuki blinks a little sadly, but they’re right. With a dramatic farewell touch to their thumb—the person huffs in amusement—he brings his left hand to his phone. He types in a hurry, scooting back into the person’s embrace. He wonders if having an erection for this long is physically possible, or if them being inhuman somehow _makes_ it possible.

 _“I don’t think it’s on_ Netflix,” he says as a final verdict of his searching. Every one of the siblings—save for Keith, kind of—physically droop. Suzuki‘s heart twinges at the sight. _“We can watch something else?”_

 _“But I liked the dragons,”_ Ayako whines. _“Is there any other movie with dragons?”_

 _“I don’t think they are good,”_ Amano murmurs. Kenneth agrees with a downcast, mumbled noise.

The room is so gloomy that Suzuki feels bad about being so warm and loved. He, at least, is still happy in his little bubble. _“What do you think,_ Keith?”

The youngest boy perks up at his name, and he pops his thumb from his mouth. _“No dragon?”_

 _“No dragon,”_ Suzuki confirms.

Keith seems saddened, but just as quickly he rebounds with a smile. Almost like a squish ball. _“I want_ panda!”

“Panda?” Kenneth repeats, speaking Suzuki’s mind. Keith makes an affirmative _unh!,_ and Suzuki wonders what he means by panda. A movie about a panda? He leans his head back onto the person’s shoulder lazily, wondering what it could be. And suddenly, it pops into his head:

“Kung Fu Panda?” He says at the same time Amano asks _“There’s a_ panda _movie?”_

Silence. Then, there’s several owl-like hooting noises of recognition as they process what he’d said. He laughs at the cacophony of voices, chest warming at the mention of Kung Fu Panda. That franchise had been his middle school’s go-to movie during free periods. The person hums, pleased by the contentment radiating off him.

 _“It’s a good movie!”_ Kenneth says excitedly to Ayako, who looked dubious to the idea of watching a movie combining the words kung fu and panda. _“I watched it at school.”_

 _“When?”_ She asks. Suzuki has the faint curiosity about how a child her age _doesn’t_ know about Kung Fu Panda.

 _“_ Mr. K _showed it to us when it rained during recess. You were_ absent _I think.”_

Ayako opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted by Amano. _“I watched it too. It has a tiger.”_

 _“A tiger?”_ She seems infinitely more interested now. Suzuki takes that as his cue to look up which of the three Kung Fu Panda movies is the best. Or maybe they’d prefer to watch the first one to get a feel for it.

 _“And she’s a girl! Really cool,”_ Kenneth adds hopefully, fueling her interest.

 _Smart boy,_ Suzuki thinks absentmindedly as he scrolls through Quora answers, _knows how to worm his way through his sister’s heart._ The person chuckles at his thoughts.

_“A girl?! Really?”_

Keith claps his hands as a show of enthusiasm when Amano confirms his older brother’s claims. Suzuki tunes out the conversation and focuses on finding out which movie is the best. The majority of answers point to the second one, but he’s skeptical as to whether or not they should watch the first one to introduce Ayako to the series. He scrunches his brows in concentration. About ten seconds in, he’s shocked by a white curved square that abruptly appears on his screen, just as he’s about to scroll.

On reflex, he glances at his battery percentage— _1_ _00%, not a low battery notification_ —then does a double take— _1_ _00%? What the hell?_ —then gets hit with a wave of déjà vu as he finally realizes what it must be. He rolls his eyes as the person chortles into his hair, hugging him closer to their chest. They seem quite amused by their own joke, and it fills him with dopey affection. He slides his thumb to the side of the screen, noticing that, of course, the OK button is already greyed out.

Would you like to play a little game? If yes, press OK. If no, press outside the box.

OK

Suzuki stares at it instead of lifting up his thumb. Somehow the wording triggers a buried memory in his mind, but it’s on the tip of his tongue and he can’t quite grasp it. He reads it over and over, determined to figure out what it is. _Would you like to play a little game?_ Would you like—that’s nothing new. A _little_ game? He mouths the words to help him reach into the depths of his mind, and finally it hits him. The [video.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8CKjNcSUNt8)

He can’t help the rush of manic giggles that bubbles out of his throat, shaking his frame.

“Who are you? Jigsaw?” Suzuki whispers quietly between puffs of laughter, bringing his right hand to his mouth to mask his breathless snickering. The person barks out a laugh, and it seems that it goes unheard by the children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because this is so long, please point out any discrepancies you find (esp concerning formatting). my apologies this took a while to post. 
> 
> also you can really see the parts i really enjoyed writing huh haha


	3. little game (and a couple of discoveries)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Suzuki (unsurprisingly) loses the (skewed) game...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, i had to split this into two because a chapter has no business being 60k words long !! hahah...and yes, turns out there will be "four" parts.
> 
> notable tags this chapter: accidental watersports(!), overstimulation, kissing(!!), hurt/comfort, excessive fantasizing on suzuki's part, coming in pants, fear of discovery, minor begging, ahegao, minor angst
> 
> porn is in timestamp 7:31 PM, but it's still quite a ways down. my apologies!!

**Saturday 6:28 PM**

_“How‘s school, Haruhisa?”_

Suzuki looks up from his plate to see Uncle Misaki’s gaze fixed on him. He almost stutters when he speaks.

_“It’s okay.”_

Their eyes remain locked for a few moments more before he breaks eye contact. His plate is still piping hot, fogging up with steam that heats his nose. It reminds him of how he hasn’t eaten anything all day, so he takes a spoonful of the thick, aromatic sauce spilling over his rice and wraps his lips around his spoon. He very nearly moans at the taste that floods his mouth. Meaty and rich, savory and full. It’s a strong enough flavor for him to ignore the sting of the heat on his tongue.

Perhaps a bit worryingly, it also reminds him of the person’s pre-cum. His mouth waters at the thought of rippled flesh on his tongue. His decency isn’t helped by the burning sensation on his taste buds, most notable  on his “wound.” He chases after it by bringing another spoonful to his mouth. 

 _“Don’t fuss over stuff like school at the dinner table, dear,”_ Aunt Emi says, snapping Suzuki from his thoughts. He meets her twinkling eyes and pulls the spoon from his lips, then returns her smile. It’s much less warm than hers, tinged with sheepish guilt, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she turns to her husband. _“Listen, the kids had a_ movie marathon _with Haru-kun!”_

In an instant, Suzuki feels the man’s sharpened gaze pinning him to his seat. It takes everything he has not to squirm and even more not to raise his eyes from the table. The faint arousal that had teased the edges of his belly swiftly turns to uncomfortable prodding, and his spoonfuls of rice become imperceptibly smaller. 

Hasn’t he already made enough eye contact to satisfy the man? Has it always been this much of a struggle just to sit on the opposite side of him? No, maybe not. Probably not. Suzuki knows their relationship as nephew and uncle has not always been this strained. Maybe it was because of his mother that tensions between them grew, or maybe...it was the loom of Aunt Hinata’s death that made things difficult. He’s long since recovered from it—right?—but even so…

He tries not to think about it.

Anyway, as of right now, it’s probably the guilt of having not-quite-sex in the man’s living room eating away at his conscious. He’d soiled himself near his _cousins,_ on their _furniture!_ And maybe it’s the promise of something more, later, that also makes him feel preemptive guilt. He rubs his wounded tongue on the back of his teeth, somehow more excited now that he’s remembered what happened before he came to dinner.

 _“I see.”_ Uncle Misaki’s tone makes his tongue freeze. The chatter goes quiet, then, and not even Aunt Emi seems wanting of picking the conversation up.

Suzuki shrinks into his seat, repeating the person’s pattern in his head to feel a rush of warmth. It doesn’t do much against Uncle Misaki’s tone, coldly accusing him of corrupting the children’s diligent lifestyles. Or maybe he’s imagining it. But it’s plausible, right? In a way, he guesses that he _had_ been corrupting them. Maybe he’d corrupted them while he was getting rubbed off like no other; while he lost his mind cumming all over their expensive leather recliner; while he fantasized about getting held down as Hiccup flew off to save the world. 

Suzuki grips his spoon to absorb his shiver. He manages to avoid thinking about the eyes that could be on him. 

To calm the heat in his belly, he repeats the pattern more aggressively, tracing the roof of his stew-flavored mouth with his tongue. His appendage skips and skids, tickling the roof of his mouth, but the intent is there. Any more staring and his secret feels like it’s sure to be revealed, though Suzuki knows that Uncle Misaki is oblivious to anything bad he’s done, and _will_ do. 

His hole clenches excitedly at the prospect of being outed. He’s unable to stop a new shiver from shaking his body, but he’s able to grit his teeth in time to stop a full-on spazz out. The feeling reminds him of what happened before he’d come to the dinner table, and he feels the onset of a full-face flush. His jacket collar digs into the soft skin of his jawline, reminding him of just who could be watching. 

Keith pipes up to save him from anyone in the family that might’ve noticed his slip-up. _“We watch_ How to…How to Dragon!”

He breathes out when all eyes divert to Keith. He knows his blush had probably been noticed by _them,_ though. That is...if they’re actually here. He takes a sip of water to hide his expression, and he glances off somewhere to the side. It’s just to comfort himself. If he’s lucky, it might even count as a greeting. _Hello, Sir,_ he thinks just in case.

“How to _Train_ Your Dragon,” Ayako corrects. _“But now we’re watching_ Kung Fu Panda!” 

Her father grunts in response, a ways away from sounding anywhere near the tone he’d used with Suzuki. He picks up his mug and sips slow and elegant, setting it down at the same time Suzuki sets down his glass. 

 _“Having fun?”_ Uncle Misaki asks.

There’s a second of silence before the question unleashes a flood of enthusiasm. All of the siblings, even Kenneth, join in with their own perspectives on the movies. The clinking of metal and thudding of glass eases Suzuki’s discomfort, and he finds himself contributing quietly to the conversation. His remarks and comments are swept along the current of chatter, though, and soon he falls completely silent, opting to listen to the family’s interactions. They are so absorbed in their own world that he easily slides out the reaches of their attention. 

He wonders, in the back of his mind, if his family dinners were ever as lively as this. Maybe, surely...but he can’t remember the last time he’s had dinner with his family. Soft bittersweetness edges into his palate, and he pushes it away in favor of scarfing down more rice. 

Slowly but surely, his mind drifts back to the person. He can’t resist smiling shyly into his spoon. Thoughts about them and their touch and their voice and their warmth tinges his cheeks with pink. Memory of all their silly teasing and antics pulls his begrudging muscles into an impulsive smile. He casts another glance to the side, this time to a space in the darkened wall behind Aunt Emi. He’s not sure if that’s where the person is, but he doesn’t mind. 

Again, he feels that same encompassing feeling that had encased his chest with emotion earlier. He wonders what it is, what it was; if it could be love. He doesn’t know. He isn’t sure what love feels like, anyway; isn’t sure if it’s really the same kind of love everyone else seems to feel.

He doesn’t even know if he loves his parents or not. He’s sure he does, but he just doesn’t know which of the feelings he feels is love. Is love supposed to be the way the kids look up at Uncle Misaki like he’s the world, even though the man himself looks so stern and indifferent? How about the way Aunt Emi had smiled at him when he came out with gift bags of _anmitsu_ in his hands? The way his father had decided to remodel his room? How about when his mother packs him onigiri to take to school? Is it counted as love when he offers to do chores to ease his parents’ workload? 

If any of that is love, then what is the way the person kisses him, touches him, and praises him like he’s... _theirs?_ Is it a different kind of love? Is it love at all? Nobody has ever...

So then, is love supposed to be the way he’s attached to them? The way he thinks of them? The way he looks for them? 

Another glance, this time to the kitchen’s entryway.

Maybe, maybe. That’s all he can say to himself. Not most likely, not most probable. Just maybe. And that’s fine, really, because he’s happy now. He’s glad the family’s busy talking about something like curfews. He can’t imagine explaining to them why his cheeks are burning so hot or why, in the middle of dinner, his mind is alight with the memory of someone no one else could possibly know. Again and again and again, his encounters with the person runs through his mind, and Suzuki knows for certain that he loves to hear their voice. He loves their touch, too, felt so good. So warm. 

He wonders if loving everything physical constitutes _love._ He wonders if that means the person loves him back, then, as childish as that sounds. Maybe he’ll start picking flower petals and singing to himself—the things he’s seen people do in movies. They love me, they love me not.

But really ever so truly...whether or not they love him...he doesn’t know. He doesn’t really care either. 

Or maybe he does. Just a teensy bit.

But his mind is too busy drifting over to the pattern, and finally he’s able to focus on what it could mean. Whether or not he forced himself to think of something else—something besides the fact that he doesn’t know if they love him or not—is as clear as the water in his glass. 

Out of curiosity, or more like distress, he takes his left hand and reaches it beneath the table, ghosting at his clothed thigh. He traces the pattern he remembers at roughly the same size the person had traced it. The pattern reminds him of a star, but when he pictures it in his mind, it looks nothing like he’s seen before. It also isn’t nearly as pleasurable as when the person had traced it, but it’s not like they’re here to do it for him now.

Well, technically…

Another glance. He sees nothing, but for once in his life since this entire situation began, he doesn’t mind the person’s “absence.”

**38 Minutes Ago (5:50 PM)**

Suzuki worried his lip with his teeth, wrapping the polyester blanket around his body. He didn’t know where it came from, but he wasn’t about to question a source of comfort. He closed his eyes and took a deep enough breath for the fabric to be sucked up into his nose. He kept inhaling until his chest locked up completely, and he forced himself to exhale in short, sporadic spurts of air. It still smelled like them, clean linen and scented arousal. He burrowed deeper into his self-made cocoon, reminding himself of the arms that had wrapped around his waist and pulled him closer to warmth.

 _“Daddy’s home!”_ Ayako leapt off the couch and sprinted into the opposite corridor, probably heading towards the back of the house where the garage was. The other kids joined her in a flurry of motion, wafting gusts of excitement over to where he lay concealed yet bare. The kids, in their enthusiastic departure to see their father after a day’s work, had left him alone in the living room. He couldn’t blame them, to be honest. He’d probably choose an immediate family member over an outside relative too. Well, if he was close to his immediate family at least.

The thought of his parents reminded him of yesterday. Or had it even been yesterday? It seemed so long ago that he had his mental breakdown. At the thought of said breakdown, Suzuki felt his face heat, and he hurriedly nestled deeper into the blanket. God, that was embarrassing. He never would have known he was the type to be overly emotional like that. He knew he had some unaddressed trauma from moving so suddenly; his counselors had told him that during a grade-wide assembly at school…but for it to be that bad? For him to have sobbed out his story to someone that had taken his virginity?! God, and he’d cried during the marathon too!

“!!!...” Suzuki brought his legs to his chest and smashed his face in between his knees, wounding the blanket tight around his huddled body. He resisted the urge to screech, opting to exaggeratedly rock back and forth. The recliner creaked with the movement, but he was too wrapped up in his embarrassment to notice. This behavior was ridiculous, he knew, but it was funny in a retrospective way. A derisive way, even. 

And so he coped the only way he knew how besides crying: by laughing. Breathlessly. He laughed until the scent of fresh laundry and love and heat coaxed him into remembering the fiery pleasure that made him dizzy and bleed. He licked his lips: chapped, cut, tasted like blood. His penis ached, but it was dull, not hot and heavy like it had been when the person was here.

He swallowed, then, because he couldn’t help but remember that there were still two hours left. There was still time for him to be played with, ah, but where had they gone..? What game had they wanted to play? 

Suzuki shifted his weight and leaned back. The living room was too quiet. He could hear the children whisper excitedly as keys jingled and jangled behind the garage door. He could be imagining it, but it didn’t matter. He brought his face up for air, and the coldness of the stale room stung his nostrils. It hurt; kind of, barely. 

He buried his nose back into the blanket, but the person’s scent was nearly gone. No matter how much he sniffed and sniffed, he couldn’t get a good enough trail. He wanted to be suffocated by it, wanted to be heady and intoxicated. But it was no good; it was lost. What was worse was that he was cold; freezing. His face was warm but numb. His nose stung even more burrowed in the blanket. 

It hurt so much that it was ridiculous.

Out of need to escape the wriggling, nagging feeling in his stomach, he shifted his legs only to flinch at the icy leather that greeted his ankles. The difference between that and the memory of the person’s legs beneath his almost made him want to cry. 

The garage door opened, and an explosion of sound traveled to his ears: _I’m home; welcome home! Welcome home! Welcome home! Hi Daddy!_

Suzuki squeezed his eyes shut and fought back the creeping slithers of gloominess. No good in this ridiculous kind of negativity. So what if they’d disappeared from underneath him without so much as a farewell? They’d already given him enough; they held his hand, kissed him, talked to him. Just like they’d promised him in the notification that first night, they’d made him feel good. Yes, yes, they had. They made him squirt again—like a girl, then made him blush and giggle like one too. Already the thought of it all made him feel better, if not a bit hot under the collar. He shifted at the memory of their voice, then squirmed at the memory of everything. 

How long until he could see them again? He hadn’t returned the favor of making them orgasm yet. Two days! The person hadn’t orgasmed—with him, at least—for two days! All because of him. What he’d done was take and take, and that…he didn’t like that. Especially when he’d been difficult in getting aroused, let alone staying aroused. Just how many times had he gone into a crying fit? 

 _Too many,_ he thought as his cheeks burned, _too many times._ He’d been complicated and demanding, yet they were good to him; held him steady throughout it all, listened to his story, and made him cum and lose his mind. 

But what good had _he_ been?

So he couldn’t stop himself from having a horrible, familiar thought, one that clinched his heart in a metal shackle that was newly fanned and flamed, burning and branding the muscle in a waffle-iron pattern. Maybe the person had gone to someone else for release, someone who didn’t need massive amounts of coddling for a two hour orgasm frenzy. Someone who was good and didn’t complain. 

Someone who deserved it. 

His entire being deflated and crushed itself beneath the weight of his thoughts.

And it was ridiculous, this jealousy and possession type of deal. So _what_ if he had been marked? So what if their fingers had been buried in his ass? So what if he had given them everything he could? So what if they’d told him they wanted him to play their little game when they hadn’t even explained it to him yet? So what if they’d cuddled him while “watching” a movie? So what if they had taken his first kiss? So what if he’d been traced by their pattern with enough love and care and tenderness to make his heart stutter? So what if he really thought he was a good boy because they’d _told_ him he was a good boy and he—fuck, was he crying? Was he? God...

Suzuki fumbled with his hands to get them untangled from the blanket. His fingers felt foreign and detached from his body, like he was consciously controlling them through a monitor. Even so he forced them to his face. His fingertips slipped too easily when he dragged them down his cheeks. Wet. He pulled his fingers from his face and held them up to the screen light to make sure the moisture wasn’t blood. At this point, he’d be more relieved if it _was_ blood. At least then he could distract himself with being in the hospital.

Except the wetness on Suzuki’s fingers glinted clear in the light. He was crying again, tears of water. No need for a hospital. He was just weak and dependant, not physically ill. Not like that information was anything new, of course. He shut his eyes in frustration and felt more tears slip from their corners. It was stupid, really so stupid, because really...it just hurt. He couldn’t deny how much the thought of the person treating someone else like their good boy _hurt._ Or maybe it was the fact he hadn’t lived up to their expectations that hurt. Either way, he knew he was too attached. That was it: already in too deep. 

What was he? Some kind of clingy girlfriend? This wasn’t some TV show; this jealousy wasn’t cute. Nothing about this was remotely cute. It was absurd; ridiculous. He didn’t even know their name, yet they knew of his deepest personal secrets, from how much he liked to be overpowered to how deeply starved he was for warmth. What was he to them? What _good_ was he to them? He didn’t know. He just didn’t know. 

And somehow that pushed more moisture past the brink of his eyes. It occurred to him that he didn’t want to dirty the blanket once he felt tears trickle down his neck. It was ironic considering he’d came all over it earlier—though he couldn’t feel the wetness of his ejaculate at all, which was strange. Regardless, he wiped his skin dry with his sleeve. 

The family’s voices came closer. Suzuki guessed that they must be walking down the corridor. There was no good in letting them see him cry, so he resolved to flee to the bathroom, opposite of where the voices were coming from. The instant he stood up, though, he was hit with such soul-crushing, devastating _loneliness_ that he very nearly bundled up the blanket in his arms to take with him to the restroom. 

But his rational mind was still partly intact, and he berated himself for having that stupid of a thought. Was he some kind of child? A child that needed the reassurance of something familiar with him at all times? 

“...” He touched the phone in his pocket, then thought to himself: _maybe._ Maybe he was. A familiar feeling of self-deprecation comforted him in a way that would be called sad should he tell someone else about it. Regardless of his childishness, though, he shouldn’t grab a heavy-duty blanket and kidnap it to the bathroom. Could he even carry it? 

He used the excuse of gauging the blanket’s weight to pick it up and bury his face in it. Nobody needed to know that he inhaled and memorized the faintest scent of the person as best as he could. Nobody needed to know he rubbed his face in it even though it burned his cold-numbed skin.

So, no. He couldn’t carry it. It bunched up too bulkily in his arms, and the voices were dangerously close—no time to waste. So without further ado, Suzuki dropped the blanket and darted in the direction of the bathroom. His dark-adjusted eyes navigated without need for light. The way he was skillfully prancing about made him feel like a ninja, and since nobody but him was watching, he let himself enjoy it. Nobody needed to know he was wiping away the tears that kept slipping from his eyes on every skip forward. 

He’d safely made it to the bathroom when he unceremoniously whacked into the closed door. He reeled back and grit his teeth in embarrassment, then, because _wow_ he’d just slammed into it with a loud bang, and he’d heard multiple members of the family gasp at the sound. A surefire way to kill a conversation. 

He prayed for none of them to come investigate. How on Earth was he supposed to explain his bout of childishness without ruining his composed, mature image? Not only that, but he’d also have to explain why his eyes were all teary and red. Maybe he could pass it off as pain from when he bonked his head too hard on the door, but wouldn’t that just make him seem like a weirdo? 

Usually he’d laugh at his own predicament, but right now it made his eyes sting and his mouth sour. He swallowed as shallowly as he could, just a sliver of saliva to tamp down the ball in his throat—too deep a swallow and he felt he might vomit. While worrying his lip with his teeth, he twisted the door’s loosely-screwed knob to the right. It jangled too much compared to when he’d went to the bathroom earlier, and it was only then that he noticed his hand was shaking. He held his wrist to still its jitteriness and pushed the door open the rest of the way with his foot, but even his foot shook with a strange kind of anxiety. The miniscule muscle contractions in his thighs made him twitch like an addict in withdrawal.

The darkness waiting for him on the other side was on the teetering edge of being scary. Should a gust of wind blow into him and flutter his lashes right then, he’d turn his tail and run. He wondered why nobody had thought to install a night light when there were four kids in the household. Fortunately for him, though, he’d grown somewhat accustomed to the dark; found comfort in it. It meant that the person might be there, lurking in the darkest of corners, or maybe waiting to ambush him with an embrace. He’d like that right about now. 

Suzuki stepped into the restroom and felt for the sink. Sure enough, he felt an unbearable weight of loneliness behind him, like there was a void that could swallow him up whole if he lost his footing and fell back. And should he fall, he wanted to at least see; hope; _feel_ himself be caught in a warm chest with a beating heart; kissed at his hair; brushed and groomed with careful fingers. 

So he was patient. He waited in the dark with tense shoulders and uncontrollable twitching; with tears in his eyes that dotted his clothing as they trickled sparingly down his cheeks; with weak fingers that aimlessly flexed and unflexed for the door handle. He waited even after he closed the door behind him, trapping himself in darkness. He felt stupid, like a fool, and maybe he really was. Good grades were no testament against this kind of weak-willed character, and he knew that. 

Even so, Suzuki waited for them. He waited because maybe they’d only left because they had to do something, or maybe they’d left because Uncle Misaki had come home. Maybe they didn’t want to run the risk of being discovered by an adult, even though they’d done riskier things to him in the presence of his parents. Maybe they just wanted to make him wait? 

Though the excuses he thought made him feel better, none of them made sense except for maybe the last one. That was okay, though. He could live with that. 

On instinct, he touched the mark on his neck with trembling fingers. It felt like a simple raised bump with a scabby scratch; warm and tender and surely bruised a berry red. His timid touching was not as pleasurable as the person’s experienced fingers, but a low hum of heat lit up anyway. He savored the way it neutralized the acid in his mouth, then lifted his other hand from the sink to find the light switch. He wanted to see it, that’s why, he just wanted to see it. He decided that he’d given up waiting. 

Yet, traitorous to his mind, his eyes closed the moment his fingers made contact with the switch, and because of that he waited just a bit more. What was the point of wasting time to open his eyes again anyway? He was sure to squeeze them shut with the light after spending so long in the dark. Even the smallest flash would blind him. 

He told himself that, but even a child would see through his facade. He knew he was weak, but so what? Because maybe...maybe they were testing him; maybe they were just waiting for the right moment. Maybe, please. Please

Please

 _…On three,_ he told himself—forced himself—and readied his fingers to flick the switch upwards, twitching like a mayfly eager to mate and die. _1…2…no, on five…1, 2, 3–_

—and he couldn’t contain the noise that burbled from his throat when a warmth pressed itself to his back. Gently, ever so gently, nimble fingers snaked up his left side and lead his wrist away from the switch. The person’s right hand trailed up his chest, greeting his own with a caress, then covered his mouth with its palm, strong and reassuring. He willingly fell lax, and their thumb rubbed at his nose as if in approval. Their left arm held him upright by wrapping around his waist. The feeling of safety it offered reminded him a seatbelt, and he smiled into their palm. He could feel a tear drop drip down his face and slip beneath the person’s hand, nestling into the crevices of their fingers, tickling his top lip with moisture. It was embarrassing, so embarrassing, yet it seemed insignificant compared to the kiss pressed to the back of his head, just like he’d wanted, just like he’d needed.

 _Hello,_ the kiss seemed to say, _we’ve met again._

And if it were not for the hand covering his mouth, Suzuki was sure he would’ve responded with _Yes Sir, I was waiting for you._

But he made no move to remove their hand and speak. Like this, it was comfortable. The silence was no more awkward than it was soothing, and so the two of them cuddled each other for what had to be more than a couple of minutes. It was only when Suzuki couldn’t take the wetness of his nostrils anymore that he sniffled and broke the spell. The sound was extraordinarily out of place in the small, darkened restroom. He blushed, and out of a childish need to hide, he wriggled beneath them to turn his face into their chest. The person loosened their hold with a chuckle and slid both of their hands to the small of his back, hugging him close once he was situated.

_Warm_

Suzuki curled his fingers into the person’s shirt, squeezing his arms to his chest so as to get as snuggled in as possible. He was shorter than them, much shorter, but he slotted into their chest like a puzzle piece and wore their arms like a sweater. He took liberty in rubbing his wet cheeks against their chest like some kind of purring cat, scratching his soft face with the rougher fabric of their shirt. The slight burning friction was something he didn’t mind when accompanied by the person’s scent. They smelled cleaner, less musky and more sunshine, but there was an undercurrent of heat clinging to their clothing. He could smell it even with his wet nose and less-than-sober mind, an innate sense inside of him actively seeking it out. The scent of arousal.

So without thinking, he reached his hand down to their bulge and quite shamelessly groped them. Just a quick grab, really, no big deal. A rub up and down to feel them pulsate beneath his palm, a more purposeful grind to see if he could feel those nubs like he had when he’d sucked them off. It was an innocent, absent-minded kind of motion, like the ones people do when they’re staring at their teenage crush. It was, to him, in the same league as twiddling with his thumbs or sniffing out of embarrassment.

The instant his fingers made contact with the person’s bulge, they stiffened in front of him. Like, full on locking of knees and freezing of limbs. It was like their posture became stiffer than their erection! The thought tickled him, and he enjoyed the fluttery feeling of knowing—assuming—that they hadn’t orgasmed without him. With a sweet kind of innocence he continued to knead their bulge, milking the idea of them delaying their own climax to be with him. His fingers deftly danced around the solid mass of their erection, almost like he was moulding pottery. It was strange how easily he forgot himself, modesty and all.

“...” Their heartbeat counted twenty seconds of silence, a rhythm he could memorize and recite in his sleep.

Then slowly, ever so slowly, he realized what he’d done—no, what he was _doing._ It dug into his conscious in the leaden manner of a finger sinking into a dense pile of dough, and his fingers slowed their movements as the realization crept over his mind. 

“Ah..-” Horrified, he pulled his head back just enough to speak, but his mind was so scrambled he didn’t have the chance to filter his thoughts from his words, and some phrases came out naturally in his mother tongue: 

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know what I was…I wasn’t paying attention and—you’re still hard? _Why?_ _Sorry that’s—but why?_ You disappeared so I thought maybe...but maybe not? 

 _“S-Sorry_ I’ll stop touching you I forgot I, um, I like to tou—W-Want me to suck you off becauseIwant to! I do! But—

“I-...You-...do you want to fuck? Instead? Fuck me? **Please fuck me** I—wait. No, just ignore— _wait, no,_ don’t ignore becauseI know you don’t like it when I. FuckmeI-I’msosorry I— _You’re warm_ and I just. W-”

_Where did you go? Why did you go? Why me? What are you? What do you want? Will I see you again? Will you tell me your name? Will you show me your face? Will you fuck me today?_

“Wh-hat was the game you wanted me to play?” He finished instead, rushing out a breath. 

**“...”**

A pin’s drop would be deafening with how quiet it was after he stopped blabbering his mouth off. He kept his mouth open for a reason he himself didn’t know. Maybe some flies would want to nest there. He noticed he was panting with the effort it took to spill everything on his mind, and his cheeks were so hot it felt like his face was sweating. He probably _was_ sweating, actually. Or maybe the wetness he felt trickling down his face was from tears. God, he didn’t really know which was worse. 

Eventually, he shut his mouth with a click and forced his breathing to slow, dizzying his vision with blobs of meandering rainbow light.  His eyes were focused upwards at what he hoped was the person’s face, but his vision was swirling and unsteady, like he was not at all grounded in one place. He burrowed back into their chest for comfort, and the heat made the spinning echoes of his blabbing just a bit more bearable. It was only when he went to press his ear up against their heartbeat that he noticed the person wasn’t exactly staying still. Rather, it was like they were squeezing him closer with a jerky movement, shaking a little, and it was a _very_ familiar feeling.

“A-Are you _laughing?”_ Suzuki asked, utterly astonished. He hadn’t bothered to pull away this time—if he did, he felt he’d fall backwards and lose his balance—so his voice was muffled and small. The person didn’t respond, instead making a _kkhh-h-h_ sound with their mouth, the kind that people made when they let a choice snicker filter between their teeth. They _were_ laughing at him!

A freight train of humiliation slammed into Suzuki with enough devastation to prick his eyes with tears. His mouth parted in quiet, hurt shock, wetting the person’s shirt with saliva as he breathed through his mouth. _Why?_ Heaviness settled in his gut, making him sick to his stomach. He could vomit if he decided to chase after the dread tying knots in his chest. _Why?_ He curled his fingers in the person’s shirt until his nails dug into his palm, but he didn’t have enough strength to cut through the fabric. _Why are you laughing?_

The person seemed much less intent on hiding their laughter now that they were caught, and they unabashedly chortled from above him, pulling him close by cupping his butt and squeezing—Suzuki flinched at the feeling—before lifting him up by his bottom. His arms automatically reached up to wrap around their neck, too disoriented to think through his actions. 

Once his butt was stable on the marble sink, the person’s hands traveled up his spine until he straightened and arched into their chest, presenting his body for show. It made him vulnerable in a way he didn’t want to be—not right now, please not right now; The fingers that would’ve otherwise been pleasant felt sick and slithery as their nails scraped over his vertebrae, and his thighs twitched to close. 

A kiss that was way too carefree compared to what he was feeling pressed itself to the very tip of his nose, then his cheeks, then his temple, then a spot above his brows. Feeling less than appeased, those same brows knitted together as his legs locked behind the person’s back as a means to conserve his balance. The kisses were as normal as ever: teasing, loving. Smiling. Even in his negative state, Suzuki couldn’t detect a hint of malice. _Why?_ Was he overthinking? Had the laugh been Good? 

As he was thinking, his legs, as if on their own accord, squeezed the person closer by the waist, pressing their body into his and chasing after their warmth. The person rumbled a purr and gave in partly to his squeezing, granting his face another round of peppery kisses. The sound, combined with the heat near his crotch, was _bad,_ and it was exacerbated by the building pressure in his stomach. 

His arousal had already been satisfied, but this position excited him in a way that it shouldn’t. Emotions that were similar to the shame and fear and _mess_ when he’d gotten violated that first night—near his parents—swirled together in his gut until his confusion threw together a sick mix of depraved arousal. Just a ghost of a thought had his attention turning away from negativity and going straight into heat. 

The person could just lift him up a bit more, that’s why; strip him of his clothing and ease inside his puckering hole even though his penis was soft. They could fuck into him quick and easy and make him come even though his emotions were such a mess. They could make him forget it all—fill the bathroom with echoing noises of skin slapping on skin while forcing breathless little squeaks and whimpers out of him. Make his tears of humiliation turn into overwhelming pleasure. And after his chest was stained with his multiple splatters of ejaculate—and his hole filled to the brim with the person’s singular orgasm—he could be dressed back up and sent on his merry way to greet Uncle Misaki. 

Maybe he’d be given a soft farewell kiss to get his hopes up. They could make his mind tunnel down thinking about the piece of love he’d gotten after the shameless orgasms he’d been forced into. They could give him a reason to chase after more because really, 

wasn’t it just him that wanted more? 

“—h...” a quiet noise escaped the back of his throat, mixed between despair and need. Funny how easily he warped his predicament with the help of a little stimulation. The person noticed his excitement, of course, and chuckled deep in their chest, fanning small puffs of breath on his cheek. They didn’t seem to realize the depth of the emotions caught in his head and body, smothered by the arousal clouding his eyes. He couldn’t blame them—couldn’t, because he’d always been like this, hadn’t he? Enjoyed things while he was suffering? Begged for mercy while he had the time of his life? A pervert. He’d always been a pervert.

He squirmed at his own mini revelation, swallowing a quiet whimper. He didn’t like this, but maybe he did. 

_But why?_

It was then that he remembered what had transpired not even two minutes ago. His mind partly cleared, and he reeled back from his aroused state. He had the faintest clue that his chest was constricted with funny knots that made it harder to breathe and his heartbeat irregular, yet his crotch was hot with a familiar type of heat. _Not normal,_ but that wasn’t anything new to him. He wasn’t normal, however much he’d cringe at himself for thinking that later. 

He racked his only slightly sober mind for what had happened for him to feel this...frazzled, and really ever so truly, it was horrible thinking about it because it made him feel like a child, less than human, not important; a fun show that could be disposed of, but he knew it wasn’t like that! And that was what was so horrible—that he was so _weak._ That he got hung up over the most childish things. That he was like this. That all he had to say was 

“...please don’t laugh...” and he’d be—...

It was soft. So quiet and meek that it came out pathetic. Breathy, like he was whispering an insult to a turned back. Every part of Suzuki’s mind short-circuited and promptly shut down for four seconds before everything was back up and running. His nerves raced excitedly to be a part of his conscious, vying for his attention, but more than anything he just wanted to forget he existed at all. 

He’d actually...he’d actually said it _out loud!_

The realization made the knots in his chest tighter and the heat in his belly too hot and forceful. In an instant he forgot about his earlier predicament of being turned on by feeling worthless, and instead his attention directed towards guessing how the person would react. Bad? Good? Would he be laughed at once more? The seconds of quiet stillness after he’d whispered his plea were excruciating, and he held a small sip of breath until his lungs burned. 

Then the person crooned, nosing at his face and smothering him in apology; familiar, loving, tender. Not at all like they were making fun of him. They pressed in close, brushing their cheeks against his and humming intimacy near his ear. Like a popped gas bubble of dry ice, Suzuki’s pressurized emotions whooshed and dissipated into thin wisps of fog. His breath escaped him in a hissy keen as he soaked up the attention.

Their touches were no longer a sickly coil around his nerves. It felt more like he was a spoiled cat being pet and loved. Eventually, the hands roaming up and down his back soothed the knots in his chest and edged away the potent arousal between his legs. He relaxed slightly to hang onto them with his arms, and he let himself be peppered with kisses. 

Now that his irrationality had calmed down, it was easier to think with logic. Well, as much logic as he could.

First thing’s first: maybe they hadn’t meant anything bad by laughing. It was in their nature, now that he thought about it. Playful and teasing with a hint of sternness. Being laughed and poked at was nothing new when it came to his encounters with them. Even so, the laughter this time left him wobbly and uneasy. It was weird. That was all he could tell himself: that it was strange. His heart wound around itself until all he could focus on was that maybe he wasn’t as important as he thought he was. Maybe everything he did wasn’t as profound as he hoped, and that maybe his efforts were something to be laughed at. 

But at the same time, maybe all of that was fine with him. It really was, or it wasn’t. He just wanted the person to stay with him. Whatever made them stay couldn’t be helped even if it hurt. It just be like that sometimes. 

Suzuki took in a breath and held it.

...But it still made him sad.

The person paused their ministrations and pressed their cheek to his, then tilted their head in contemplation. Suzuki stayed completely still, content with soaking in his embarrassment and their warmth to get over himself. He liked this position even without the sexual connotations of it. It was comfortable enough to fall asleep in, like they were cradling him in their arms. 

Well, that was until they abruptly pulled their cheek away and withdrew their hands from his back. They made a move to step away from him, and the lack of connection between him and their body let in a gust of air. _Cold!_ He immediately tightened his hold on their waist by locking his legs together. With his arms, he pulled them downwards and lifted himself up to lay his chin on the junction of their neck, letting out a fussy whine that sounded close to the word _no!_

The person _preened_ in clear delight, and the sound of their breathy laugh was close enough to his ear that he shivered from it. They obligingly snuggled him back up into their chest, crossing their forearms behind his back and jostling him forward until they could plant kisses into his hair. Tingly waves of happiness flooded his system, but at the same time his cheeks lit aflame with newfound embarrassment. 

Suzuki flustered about until he focused on the smiling lips and nuzzling nose in his hair. 

Ah...to hell with it! 

He’d embarrassed himself enough already. Who cares? He begged them to _love_ him earlier, for God’s sake. He got turned on thinking about being taken advantage of! _He_ didn’t care; he really didn’t care. So what if he’s acting childish? So what if he’s a human octopus? So what if he’s a pervert? They didn’t seem to mind it; if anything they seemed to like it! If it meant he had to suffer through his own misgivings to stay cuddled up in their arms, then so be it. This was much better than being all alone and cold. 

The memory of his deficiency in the living room prompted him to nuzzle their shoulder and inhale. In an instant he went dizzy with the potency of their scent, ever so strangely euphoric. 

“I missed you,” he murmured into their shoulder, just because he could. It was crazy, he was crazy; this kind of attachment wasn’t normal. In the back of his mind, he had the flitting thought that they hadn’t even answered any of his questions, but it felt good. Being able to say something that he really truly meant from the depths of his soul to the tips of his fingers felt _good._ To say what he wanted to say, selfishly, and have someone listen—it gave him a rush of exhilaration he’d never felt before. So he said it again, in the same desperate voice that wisped air into the fabric of their clothing, with the same sincerity he’d always had when he talked to them. “I missed you, I missed you, I missed you, Sir.”

The person hummed in response, a long and drawn-out sound that spoke their acknowledgement and highlighted their smile. It filled Suzuki with a sense of rightness knowing that he’d pleased them. Their right hand cupped the small of his back and ghosted its way up to his nape, making him breathe a feminine noise near their ear. Their next amused sound rumbled too deep into his frame, and it was almost like they purposely pressed their body into his crotch to push him onto the sink. Out of habit, he licked his lips and swallowed at the quiet flare of arousal that made his toes curl. The feeling of his saliva cooling and chapping his lips made him irrationally lonely when juxtaposed with the warmth he was latched onto, so without too much thought he pulled his head back.

 _“Chu?”_ and he parted his mouth for them to take, peeking his tongue out shyly. His head tilted left of its own accord. He hadn’t even realized he’d spoken in childish Japanese. It felt strange closing his eyes, so he kept them half-lidded and lazy even though he couldn’t see in the dark. There was a second of all-consuming silence, but Suzuki wasn’t scared. He knew they’d accept him. He’d felt their fingers twitch on his neck; felt their nails just barely dig into his skin. He knew that he did good. 

He was good. 

Before taking his lips, the person breathed something that sounded like they were speaking to him: a breathy growl that was impossibly understandable. It was so close to an actual word yet completely unintelligible that he made a responding _eh?_ right before he was claimed. The kiss consequently caught him off-guard, and his eyes fluttered in confusion—once, twice, thrice—before finally falling closed as he succumbed to their mouth. _Thank you, Sir,_ he told them in a muffled mewl. 

They surged forward in response, threading their fingers in his hair and cradling the back of his head. The feeling of nails scraping across his scalp made him shiver. He gave them a spritz of fight just to be playful, weaving his tongue around theirs and sucking on their bottom lip, pushing against their momentum. It was difficult with his legs spread and his head literally in the palm of their hand, but he made do. His belly swooned when the person dragged an approving nail across a sensitive part of his scalp. 

Eventually, though, Suzuki tuckered out of play-fighting and went limp. Saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth, hot and fast-cooling. The person sensed his laziness and eased their tongue into a much more sensual and deep drive forward: sucking on his lips like candy, taking the liberty to explore his now unguarded mouth. He loved this intimacy—the kind that severed the connection between his rationality and emotions. It made him vulnerable that way; made it so that he could be molded and reshaped however the person liked. 

It was exhilarating and enlightening and terrifying. He could fall apart with just a sleight of their hand. One day he’d never be able to regain himself after they rip into him piece by piece, 

and maybe that was alright with him. Maybe all he wanted was to be able to let go of himself.

An involuntary noise escaped the back of his throat when the fingers in his hair coaxed him into tilting his head at _just_ the right angle. They smiled, then, a real smile that made him forget to breathe for a good two seconds. The lack of oxygen made the sensations of their tongue far more stimulating than before. One of his hands traveled up to card through their soft, textured hair so he didn’t lose himself to the stimulation. They took the chance to push his body backwards onto the counter, leaning him until their knuckles hit the mirror. His back ended up uncomfortably positioned over the dip of the sink. 

It was a weird angle, but he could live with it. His legs fell from their waist to help support him from falling. Of course, he kept them loosely interlocked behind the person’s knees just in case he needed to be an octopus again. The person made several amused puffs of air from their nostrils at his thought, but he paid it no mind. It was the truth anyway. He kept one hand on the back of their head, petting them, while the other rested on their shoulder. 

They kissed him lazily now, satisfied with how pliant he was. His wounded lips felt healed with the warmth of their mouth, but every swipe of their tongue over his cuts made him tingle and burn in the best way. They tasted like a mix of blood and peppermint. 

Out of faint curiosity, he ventured in with the tip of his tongue to prick it with one of their canines, and he felt the person tense. It interested him, so he did it again, this time with the broad of his tongue. It hurt but only barely. If anything, it felt kind of good, but one of the fingers in his hair roughly scratched the back of his head before he could do it again. In his gooey, jelly-like state, he dropped it without much thought, but he definitely filed the information for later. They ran their free hand up and down his back in approval, and the feeling reminded him of his position. Ah…

“Why,” Suzuki slurred against their lips in a moment of clarity. His tongue was fat and uncooperative, barely able to form words. The person made an inquisitive _hm?_ that sent pleasurable vibrations deep into his throat, and they licked the pleased noise he made into their mouth. They didn’t bother to stop kissing him to let him speak, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t want to stop kissing anyway. “Why are we...mmakingh out on the...shink..?” 

The person paused as if in self-realization. They pulled from his lips with an audible _schlip,_ far enough that his arms felt strained trying to stay connected with them. He blinked dazedly at the change, but stayed in much the same position as he was when they were kissing him: head tilted, mouth parted, back arched uncomfortably, flushed and half-lidded. He licked his lips to warm the rapidly cooling saliva leftover from the kiss, tasting faintly of peppermint. His nipples were hard, and he could feel the nubs stick out from his shirt.

A small part of his mind wondered if he looked attractive enough to fuck. He hoped he did. It couldn’t hurt to be safer, though, so with little shame and a lot of haziness, he bared the unmarked side of his neck and spread his legs as best he could without slipping. His sweatpants stretched over his bulge, and he let out the quietest noise as the fabric pressed into his tip, grinding pieces of fiber into his stretched slit.

He didn’t feel the person suddenly freeze and rake their eyes over his form, but he _did_ feel their head turn away, facing the door. In an instant, Suzuki’s haze dissipated. His senses sharpened, but he’d sobered up too late to hear or feel them swallow a thick growl. He blinked his eyes clear of the muggy wetness that clouded his head, then closed his legs slightly and straightened to look at the door as well.

It was a wonder he hadn’t taken the person’s movements as rejection.

 _“What is it?”_ He asked, absentmindedly speaking in Japanese, squeezing his legs lightly to push them back into him. His voice was breathy, almost misty, and there was a hint of worry as his fingers fell from their hair and back to their nape. He listened to the family’s voices chatter about in the house, then deemed them far enough to not be a threat. The sliver of light beneath the door was dim, but he could tell there was nobody outside the bathroom. What was it, then? Had he done something wrong? _No._ He had done what they liked. Then what? 

With the pressing matter at hand, he forgot entirely about his initial question about the sink. What were they looking at? Were they going to go again? He didn’t want them to go! “Please don’t go...”

He felt the person turn their head back and hum a questioning kind of hum, the surprised kind that told him he was completely off the mark. Relief flooded his veins, but he still sucked in his bottom lip and shifted on the sink to invite them back. His butt hurt with how long he’d been sitting on the hard marble, but the pain was easily forgotten when they pressed their lips back to his. _It’s alright, everything’s alright,_ they seemed to say. The wordless reassurance made the restlessness licking curls up his spine ebb away. He stilled his wriggling to help them kiss him better, then urged them closer by pulling their nape towards him. They smiled at his enthusiasm, then settled back into their rhythmic licking and sucking. 

But his earlier wiggles had made his position strained. He felt he was going to slip at any moment. To remedy this, he scooted and straightened as subtly as possible, keeping his lips glued to theirs. He let them take the lead—again—while he focused on moving back to his original posture, keeping them entertained with timid licks into their mouth. His head was fuzzy with muted pleasure and contentment, like a blanket of cotton candy was wrapped around his brain. It was difficult to split his attention between their mouth and his own motor functions, so he resolved to fix himself first to make it easier for the two of them to enjoy each other. 

The person, however, made his task difficult when they slid their fingers from his hair to his cheek, touching the inside of his earlobe with their index fingertip. Without the support of their hand, the back of his head hit the warmed-up glass of the mirror with a gentle thump. His spine arched further to compensate for the change in structure. They nudged his chin up and pressured him further back by looming their body over his, and he guessed that they must be using their other hand as leverage. He couldn’t feel it anywhere else on his body. 

He knitted his brows as they forced him back into the mirror, effectively suppressing his attempts to wiggle into a more comfortable position. His butt now hung over the ledge after his back had arched to keep his head stable. He tried to use their waist as an anchor by squeezing his legs together, but he was too weak to keep hold. Instead, he was forced to hold on for dear life with his arms. He didn’t mind the discomfort, really he didn’t, but... 

 _scared_ ？

He made a soft, soft sound when they brushed their thumb across the trail of drool from the corner of his mouth. They purred in response, pushing him back further and encasing him with their presence. Their clean, heated scent surrounded him and invaded his nostrils, weaving into every nerve of his body. They pressed their thumb into his mouth the same time a sudden thought invaded his cotton candy mind:

He was _weak_ compared to them. They could settle him with one hand and pick him up with two. So many possibilities, just with that—and he knew that _they_ knew what they could do to him. They could bounce him like he weighed nothing, and the force they’d use to slam him to their pelvis would make any bed shake and creak. That’s what happened last time, wasn’t it? He could be used like their precious sex toy—a _onnahole,_ as his recent porn video adventures had taught him. They wouldn’t mind if he came over and over; they’d just keep going. It was in their nature. It was how it was done. 

The thoughts sent an explosive surge of white-hot arousal into his belly, oozing over like spewed magma. As such his body lit aflame with excitement. It buzzed through his muscles in the form of miniature contractions, causing his grip to fall to their shoulders as he dug his nails into their clothing. He made another noise into their mouth, and he wasn’t sure if it was out of fear or confusion or need. He just didn’t know, but it was strange; too strange; and 

His eyes blew wide with the force of his sudden arousal. His rational mind alerted red flags with its severity—STRANGE—but the heat slammed into his conscience much like an orgasm would, and he felt his cock twitch;

He’d taken them nice and easy like the good boy he was, that’s why. They’d held him down with just their body weight, which wasn’t hard because he was small compared to them. Short, weak, skinny; for once in his life he was _glad_ he wasn’t as muscular as his older friends. All the person had to do was use the elasticity of his bed to dig their nubs into his prostate again and again and again, conserving their stamina so they could fuck him through the night. They’d made the bed creak as they pummeled him, making him forget how to speak English, making it so he couldn’t tell which way was up or down and all he knew was that he had to be quiet. All he had to do was be _quiet_ and they’d continue to give it to him quick quick quick and stir him up deep inside, fill him up even though he begged urgently into his sheets for them not to, and he’d scratched at their arms until all he could do was hold on for dear life and just take it, 

But it was okay since he passed out before they came, but he still remembered it, everything— _everything:_

The pounding, god, the _pounding._ Suzuki whimpered into their mouth as his toes curled with the memory. The person acknowledged the sound with a sly, sly smirk, and took the opportunity to slip their tongue in as far into his mouth as they could. They tilted his chin up painfully with their thumb, opening him up wide and vulnerable. His eyes opened into slits automatically. They were _big,_ so their tongue was long, and it dug invasively deep into the cavern of his mouth, gliding over his own appendage until it metaphorically stuffed him down to his throat. He swallowed around it, remembering the feeling of cum seeping deep into his esophagus, riding down to the deepest parts of his body. 

He had an immoral thought, then, that made his rationality scream WRONG! WRONG! WHO ARE YOU? but he didn’t care, really who cared? He _wanted_ to swallow their cum after they ejaculate inside his hole. He _wanted_ to mix the two together, like one end meeting the other. Two fingers in a finger trap touching nails. He wanted to be completely theirs.

Because he was! At least that part both his minds could agree on.

The sane counterpart, though, knew that this was strange, wrong, unnatural; that he shouldn’t get so aroused in the bathroom of his cousins, yet he couldn’t stop. Why? He’d already ruined himself near the kids anyway. He was scared, confused; but more than that he was aching! His hips tilted up, and he used their waist as leverage to rut into the air, gyrating and grinding the rough fabric of his underwear across his slit. He had the flitting thought that he would need a new pair of pants by the time they were done with him. It sent a blow of neediness to his belly, clenching his gut as he whined.

“Fuck me,” he tried to say, but it came out as a garbled mess. He said it again anyway, scooting forward and off the ledge so he could press his crotch against the person’s abdomen. They calmly slid their hands underneath his thighs and to his buttocks as if they’d expected it, holding up his weight. They picked him up again, then, and wetly slipped their tongue from his mouth to accommodate the change in position. His back straightened automatically, and the back of his knees perched on the bends of their arms.

Suzuki panted and held their head into his craned neck to keep his sense of balance. His hips still tried to thrust forwards and back even in the helpless position he was being held in, but his attempts only amounted to useless contractions of his glutes. Every contraction made his freshly stretched hole clench in excitement. They held his globes in a vice grip, spreading him, and he could feel their nails digging into his skin through his sweatpants. If he focused hard enough, he might even feel drops of lube seep into his underwear from his hole. 

They could fuck him like this: spread his cheeks further apart and slam him down onto their cock. The thought sparked a vivid memory of them doing just that, right in front of his sleeping parents’ forms. Suzuki whined high in his throat, forcefully clenching his spasming hole, and the person kissed his neck with a terribly composed chuckle. 

Their calm only reminded him of how utterly self-indulgent their movements were, like he was a body for them to enjoy that just so happened to orgasm. Or maybe they’d _tried_ to pull all sorts of pleasure from him on purpose; like he was a puzzle to be labored on for hours on end.

Suzuki didn’t know which of the two turned him on more. On one hand he was their precious sex toy, and on the other he was _just_ a sex toy. All he knew was that he was so aroused he was leaking into his underwear without being touched. His cock throbbed and ached, but for once he felt as if being jerked off wasn’t enough. He needed something to ravage his insides. He needed their cock to stretch him open _right now._ His prostate tingled with unsatisfying electricity, and he had an urge to stuff his fingers deep inside himself to scratch it away, just like the person had done during the movies. 

But he knew that it wouldn’t be enough, not when he remembered how it felt to get held down and taken like their good—no, not just good but their **_best_** boy!—the person purred into his neck as if saying _that’s right_ —and certainly not when he remembered the feeling of terror as he came again and again and again and he didn’t know when it would _stop,_ and he felt like he was going to pass out any second, but they just continued to drive their cock into his prostate so _hard_ that noises fell from his lips just as steadily as his ejaculate flowed out of his slit—

Suzuki keened high and breathless in his throat, deliriously desperate. He hadn’t had it in so long, he needed it just once. The family wouldn’t mind if he took an extra long bathroom break. He could just pass it off as a bad stomach ache; turn on the ventilation system to mask his noises; god he needed it, he needed it he needed it—

“Please fuck me,” please please please _pleasepleaseplease_ “fuck me, just once, just once please Sir just once?”

The person hummed in mock consideration, “absentmindedly” hoisting him up further and “unintentionally” grinding his leaking penis as they adjusted their hold. It lit his entire body on a hotter flame, coiling a tight string around the tip of his cock and digging the itch deeper into his prostate. 

He remembered it—the feeling of their thick member sliding into him and meeting resistance after the tip popped in; having to slowly, slowly ease every single nub past his rim, scratching that itch in his prostate far beyond satisfaction. Yes, yes, they’d continued until he felt them rest heavily on his body; until he’d spasmed around the hilt of their cock. They’d loomed over his form like they could put all of their body weight _down_ and make him a part of the bed. And they could, so they did.

Right now he just wanted them to slam their cock into him, violently. No gentleness, he didn’t need it. He’d already been stretched. He just wanted to feel the rawness of their strength, wanted the brute force of it all. He wanted to black out after a couple of violent, violent, forceful poundings that grated the upper half of their ribbed cock right past his sweet spot like a massager on maximum power, like the ones he’d seen on those porn ads these past few weeks—

Suzuki felt his eyes well up with tears out of pure need, and he scratched at their scalp because he just—he _just—_

 **_“Please,_ **Sir,” he hiccupped and sobbed, tears welling over and dripping down his face. He didn’t care if the family heard him; it didn’t matter. “Please, please I—use me, please, just once. For a few minutes. I’ll be good and quiet, need you inside, need your cock inside,” 

But the person only chuckled into his neck. _No can do,_ they seemed to say, brushing their nose apologetically across his throat—sincerely apologetic, this time. 

**6:34 PM Present Time**

Suzuki shifts in his seat, fighting down his blush by gripping his hand to his pants _._ No good in remembering his actions in the bathroom, especially when everything he’d done had been embarrassingly severe. It’s dangerous how easily he gets distracted, after all. How long can he keep his situation a secret if he keeps zoning out because his mind is filled with heat? 

He reaches for his water once more and hopes that no one in the family calls him out on his thirst. The double meaning isn’t lost on him, and he hides his self-deprecating smile by taking a sip of water. The slick smooth feeling of it cools his parched throat. He absently traces the pattern on his thigh again; 

Then does a soft mini-gasp as he remembers what he was thinking about earlier. Right, the pattern! He looks underneath the table and is partly disappointed to see that his pants are still there, but he guesses he should take that as a blessing. Being pantless at the dinner table is a little far, even for him.

But Suzuki has the flitting thought that he wouldn’t mind being pantless if the person was involved. It takes a second for the thought to register, and when it does, a vein of heat courses straight to his crotch. Bad! But...He glances around the room and files the fantasy for later. 

So, tracing the pattern on himself had done nothing if going by the constancy of his pants. That’s strange. There were times when the person had traced the pattern on him and nothing happened as well though. Does that mean there’s something else he has to do for it to be magic? Maybe. He knows for sure that the pattern and the disappearance of his clothes correlate, at least. The person traces the pattern somewhere on his clothing, and the next second the fabric is gone. That’s how he _thinks_ it works, at least.

On auto-pilot, Suzuki takes another spoonful of his rice and dips it into the curry sauce. He belatedly notices that he’s almost finished with his meal. Judging from the other family members’ plates, dinner would be ending soon. He makes a mental note to offer to wash the dishes after everyone’s finished eating.

He wonders to what extent the pattern’s power is. He knows that it can make his clothes disappear and reappear. Or more accurately, it can make objects—like lubricant—disappear and reappear. It can also heal his wounds, or something like that. 

He’s actually not sure about that last one, but it makes sense. He’d read online—in the days after he’d lost his virginity—that he was supposed feel sore after the thorough fucking he got. His own phrasing makes him swallow down excess saliva and loosely cross his ankles. 

But he’d woken up completely fine, hadn’t he? He also has memories of feeling much better with a simple touch here and there. They had drawn their pattern on his thighs during the marathon, and he vaguely remembers feeling lighter and more relaxed. Well, as relaxed as he could’ve been with so much stimulation anyway. His tongue, too, feels better than it should. He gnaws on his recent puncture wound. It stings but in a good way. The healing could be a placebo effect, but he hopes not.  

Sometimes the pattern feels like a substitute for talking to him, but that sounds more like wishful thinking than an actual theory. If he really thinks about it though, maybe that’s what it’s supposed to mean when it doesn’t make anything physically appear? Suzuki feels a turn in his heart as it flutters. That makes sense, maybe. Choice thoughts _do_ appear in his head when he focuses on their tracing, but again, is that really possible? Couldn’t it be a placebo? If not, it would add another element of paranormal to this situation. It’d technically be classified as telepathy, right?

Suzuki pauses. That’s not the only thing new either though, is it? He glances around the room, shy and tentative. They could be here, watching him. He knows that for sure now.

And god, if it didn’t make him want to hide his face in his hands and squeal. 

**28 Minutes Ago, Back in the Bathroom (6:06PM)**

“You..?” Suzuki whispered breathlessly into the person’s hair, struggling to maintain his hold on their head. He dug his nails into their scalp, but not enough for it to hurt them. Or at least he hoped not. His entire body was jelly and traitorously lax, though at short, random intervals, his muscles twitched in violent spikes of energy. Electricity buzzed through his veins. 

The feeling had washed over him like an orgasm without orgasming, whisking away every emotion in his body and slating away heat until he was left raw and tingly. His burning arousal was as good as forgotten. Were he not held up by the person’s strength, he was sure he would’ve fallen to the ground in a puddle of twitching goo. 

The electric shock that had caused his weakness was something ever so strangely familiar. Ah...

A spark of hope lit in his veins, riding up his spine and re-amplifying residual electricity. _Could it really be…_ “W-Was it you..?”

Suzuki was only slightly disappointed when the person chuckled against his neck, a deep and rumbly sound that was as enigmatic as any of their previous answers. This time, though, after they eased him back onto the sink and slipped their hands from his chafed bottom—they _were_ gripping him pretty hard—they pressed their lips to the shell of his ear as he shakily settled into his new position. He winced as he slid his legs from the person’s arms, and the pain distracted him from the proximity of their face. His hands fell from their hair to their shoulders, weak. Before he could respond to the experimental puff of breath tickling his skin, a low, low, gravelly voice spoke into his ear, locking his throat and tensing every exhausted muscle in his body.

“ _Yes.”_

It was very nearly a growl that ended in a hiss, too rough and unsteady for him to recognize immediately but suggestive enough for his subconscious to understand. His mouth parted open in absolute shock, but the back of his throat closed up so he took in no breath. Somehow he forgot how to open up his airway again, and he was left semi-suffocating as he processed the word in his mind. 

_Yes..? Yes? They said yes? It was them?_

“Y..es?” He repeated dumbly. His mouth moved enough to compensate for the lack of sound. At his confusion, the person breathed a laugh into his ear, making him shiver and giving his muscles a wobbly type of strength. Out of need to ground himself, he familiarized his hands with the fabric of their shirt, gently grasping onto their shoulders. A puckering of lips identical to the word _chu_ sounded into his ear. His fingers dug into the person’s shoulders as another laugh, this time less of a breath and more of a throat sound, frazzled his thoughts. They were teasing him again, and it kind of made him want to pout, but right now all he was focused on was: “D-Did you say yes..?”

The person hummed and lingered in place, as if pondering their next action. Suzuki’s mind raced a mile a minute in the silence. Now that he thought about it some more, it was almost certain they’d said yes. Nothing else would sound that close of a word. But if they said yes, then that meant it was _them_ responsible for the shock he’d felt this morning. It was exactly like what he just felt! It had come out of nowhere, hadn’t it? It was like one of those tingles he got when his mother made him drink Pepto-Bismol and lime juice one after another. Up his spine, electrifying and sudden; like a bug with too many hairs on its legs skittering up his back. Just the thought made him shudder in revulsion, much the same as he had done earlier but less pleasurable. 

He felt the person move away after his shudder, but it was slight so he didn’t mind it. A tightening of his grip on their shoulders was enough to ease the kicking worry that they might disappear. Ah, but even if they did disappear, they’d still be _here,_ wouldn’t they? Because if they were responsible for the shock in the morning, then they were watching him almost have a panic attack in the shower—which is, granted, a tad bit embarrassing. But they’d stopped it before it could get any worse. Right? Or was he reading too much into it? Why shock him if not to distract him, though? And how had they shocked him? Ah...

But if they’d happened to be watching him in the shower, that probably meant they’d been watching him all the other times his emotions went haywire too. Maybe. No, probably. For sure probably. _How embarrassing!!_ Suzuki squirmed a little, and he felt the person move away again. This time he dug his nails into their shoulders to stop them and—he may have imagined it—felt them smile next to his ear. 

So the person _was_ the one responsible for keeping him tidy and his phone charged. Right. That made him feel happy, kind of, like he was worthy enough to be looked after. He also had evidence to assume that they’d been watching him all this time. Right...probably. That confirmed they were also watching him masturbate...right. That was a little too stimulating, and he forced himself to stop that train of thought before it got any more intense. It wasn’t like that was anything new to him, but somehow the confirmation just made him excited. He let himself file the information for later. 

But if all that was true, then they—and he hated to think about it but he had to—were watching him lose his mind while waiting for them these past few weeks. They just watched him suffer like that? Just a hug would’ve prevented him from falling so badly in a ditch, yet the only thing they’d done was charge his phone—sort of—and give him subtle hints—obvious in retrospect—that they were still present. Why? Did they have a reason not to reach out to him for so long? Were they testing him? Did they just want to make him wait? To tease him? He suffered through twenty-two days of waiting. He understood why they’d done it, maybe, but—

 _“Yes,”_ and this time it was unmistakable, more suggestive with a hint of fond exasperation. Suzuki nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound. His train of thought completely derailed, throwing itself off a bridge and into the ocean, combusting and blowing off into great big clouds of steam and smoke. _Yes._ He repeated the sound over and over again in his head. It’s the first real answer he’d ever gotten out of them. _Yes._

But could he really be sure the person was saying yes to what he was actually asking? Maybe they were saying yes to...to something else. He didn’t know what else they could be saying yes to. Maybe they were the type of person to answer something really late. Michael did that sometimes. And Linh. They liked to give him homework answers a day after he’d asked for them. Sometimes a week. But if the person was saying yes to something he’d said before, what was the..? Oh, god, were they saying yes to when he’d asked them to love him?! Wait, that wasn’t so bad, but he wasn’t really prepared—and—wouldn’t that be a bit...well he—wait—

_“Yes.”_

It came again, this time as a very amused purr that ended in a hissy kind of laugh. It fanned breath onto his ear, hot and silky. The person then pressed in close and gave his ear a gentle, _gentle_ touch of the lips, and he felt their right palm press against the small of his back. Suzuki squeaked at the minute attention. It almost seemed like an introductory phrase to something more, and surely enough, it was. Before he knew it, the palm turned into two fingers slowly digging into his back, an ever so familiar feeling that brought a pretty blush to his cheeks. 

The first shock was small, seemingly experimental as the person found his sensitive lining. It was a gentle massage into a spot above his tailbone, buzzing and humming. The buzz of pleasure was subtle enough that he didn’t realize it to be unnatural. Then their fingers began dragging upwards, and they crossed over the first real bump of his spine. The shock was a quick pulse of energy that diffused into explosions. The second bump, and another pulse at a higher intensity, and even more branches of explosions. Then again, and again, and again, flowing all through his body until he was twitching and jerking with each crossed-over vertebrae.

“Nn- _ngh!”_ Embarrassing noises leaked from his lips as the person continued their way up his spine. He writhed in their arms as his back muscles contracted, confined in place by their mouth to his ear and their left hand on the sink near his thigh. His back arched into their body, desperately trying to escape their fingers. They only followed him, and he could only go so far until he could no longer. Gravity helped press him down onto their pointed fingers once he became trapped. 

His mind skipped and skid, metaphorically short-circuiting with the overwhelming current. It was too much, but nothing like he’d ever—pleasurable? In a way, yes yes good he liked this; but it wasn’t sexual; wasn’t normal. Different from the earlier shocks; centered in a different place. Last time and the time before, his nape was where it came from, but this time it was his entire spine and;

His nerves were constantly on guard for the next shock to course through his veins, and though he expected it after feeling it for so long, it still came as a surprise to his body. He had the faintest curiosity if this was what it was like to be tased, but before he could really ponder it the next spritz of shock blanked his mind, little lightning strikes flashing his vision—but maybe he was just imagining that part. The ordeal was dragged on until he was clawing at their nape with tears in his eyes;

But it wasn’t painful, so he didn’t put any force into his protests. The scratches were more from the inability to control his body. His thighs jerked to close as his toes and fingers curled with each pulse, strongest from his spine and tapering off into smaller trails for his extremities. His noises turned to quiet whimpers that he didn’t have the strength to hide. Were anyone to press their ears against the bathroom door, they’d probably assume he was getting sexed up in the best way. The person clearly enjoyed that aspect, going by the way their head moved closer to his, encouraging the noises with a hum. 

Once the person’s fingers touched the bare skin of his nape, the shocks abruptly stopped. Suzuki immediately slumped downwards with one final shaky breath out, high and keen-like and close to how he’d sound while orgasming. His body continued to twitch with the aftershocks of the ordeal, nerves buzzing and frayed by the constant stimulation. He had a vague, scary thought that he might never recover and would have to live through this current haziness forever, but he was distracted from such a thought when the person’s fingers tilted his chin back up. 

Moist lips—the person must’ve licked them in preparation—took his panting mouth in a kiss. Their tongue traveled in slowly, gently, and did not seem to have the same depth as...before? He furrowed his brows as he sucked on their bottom lip. Somehow he didn’t really know what he was comparing this kiss to, but it ended soon after it started, much to his dismay. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to explore their mouth when they broke the kiss with a quiet _shlip._

Why so soon? It made him sad. He licked his lips and blinked his eyes, surprised to realize that he’d been crying. Since when? Just now? He tried to move his arms from the person’s body to wipe his eyes clean, but his limbs were dead weight. He couldn’t figure out how to move them even though he felt his muscles contract, like an anchor was weighing them down onto the person’s shoulders. As if knowing of his paralysis, the person’s thumb graciously swiped the trails of tears from both of his eyes. The movement was sweet and familiar. He leaned into their hand as best as he could when they cupped the side of his face. Fatigue rendered him incapable of verbally telling them _thank you,_ so he hoped the sleepy kiss to their thumb when they’d swiped it across his bottom lip was enough. Another brush of their fingers told him that it was.

Now that he had a chance to relax, he tried to think about everything that had happened up to this point. All the kisses, crying, person. Here? 

Somehow he couldn’t remember a thing, or more like he remembered too much and everything was jumbled in his head. Murky. Too many things mixing together, but it was fluid and airy. Like water used to clean acrylic paint off of brushes. He was kind of unsure of his own name, but he knew it was…

...

...well, he knew what it was, for sure, but he couldn’t bring it to mind. If he was called by it, he’d recognize it. For sure...Maybe. It was like floating, kind of. It felt like that: floating over some big black hole. It was scary, yes, because in the back of his head he knew that it wasn’t normal. If he were to suddenly resume to normalcy, then he’d—well. die. plunge into that hole and die, and that didn’t sound so bad. He just hoped it wasn’t cold down there; he didn’t really like the cold. 

Up here it was warm, so warm. The hand on his cheek was so warm and ah, it’s under his chin too: up, up, up, he went. and there’s. something wet; warm; moist! touching him? like before, like before when he’d gotten fucked—simmer of arousal, it felt good it felt good and oh, he knew this feeling, he was being kissed! again and. and it was good, he liked this, he knew this he loved loved loved

 _Loved_ to be kissed. 

Suzuki made a pleased, pleased noise into the person’s mouth. Newfound strength filled his body, mostly from excitement, and he clambered forward until his elbows hit their shoulders, forearms crossed behind their nape and his shoulders bunched up to his ears. It was uncomfortable, but it fit his enthusiasm. The person welcomed him with a loving curve of their lips, coaxing his mouth open with the tip of their tongue. He parted his mouth without a fight. 

After he’d settled into his new position, the person stepped back until he leaned to keep kissing them. They went far enough for his mouth to struggle keeping connection with theirs, letting loose some of the decidedly revealing noises he was making. Quiet, heady whimpering filled the bathroom for a few moments until his mouth gained traction and reconnected. 

With the new position, his butt was slipping into the sink, which triggered an embedded memory of Newton’s third law of motion. _Lean forward and slip back._ The fact that he remembered something so irrelevant—and most likely inaccurate—made him want to laugh, but three seconds later he forgot all about it when the person moved back _just_ a bit more. It struck a sweet chord between yoga and comfort, like a hammock hanging with perfect tension. The position was, despite the inherent burn of his muscles, infinitely more comfortable. A good stretch after sitting down for hours. He mumbled his gratitude into their mouth, something along the lines of _mmkhghm._

Then he keened when an unexpected nail graced up his spine, making his back arch and his body tremble. The shocks were absent this time, but still he was sensitive. The feeling of the nail triggered dormant tingling in his nerves, and the memory of those shocks made his eyes squeeze shut as he, quite shamelessly, moaned against their lips. He rode out the tingles with broad licks into the person’s mouth, filling the bathroom with tongues slipping against each other; panting; sucking. Multiple times he’d ran his tongue over their canines. He did it just to feel the fingers twitch on his waist. They hadn’t stopped him this time, no, but then he’d gotten a larger puncture on accident, one that overpowered every flavor of the person’s mouth with pungent copper. The hold on his waist, then, suddenly tightened to a vice-like grip. 

The abruptness of the grab shattered the heady illusion of sex. Suzuki squeaked like a mouse snapped by a trap, but the sound was covered by a growl that rumbled from the person’s throat. A thrill of fear instantly made itself home in his veins, heart skipping a terrified beat as he gauged the person’s strength by the hold on his oblique. Their nails dug into his soft, squishy stomach, not hard enough to hurt but enough to stretch the skin of his belly. Their fingers put pressure on his organs. 

He stayed as still as possible, fearful of provoking them further. His mouth remained connected to theirs. He had the vaguest clue that his tongue was still being punctured by their teeth: he could feel liquid oozing out and tickling his taste buds. Must be blood, his subconscious told him.

In the quiet, a prominent thought raced through his head: _Was he going to die?_

And his mind quickly answered with: **_I don’t want to die._ **No, not really, but Suzuki had the fleeting thought that this wasn’t so bad. Dying while being kissed—romantic, like something that only happened to lovers. Was that wrong? Was that bad? Was he a lover worthy of that? A lover at all?

But before the gravity of his situation could dawn, the hold on his waist loosened. His train of thought broke off and discarded, and the thoughts that threatened to spill from his eyes were promptly forgotten. Their fingers remained curled in his shirt, stagnant; bordering awkward. Then, the digits slowly ran up and down his side, brushing out the folds in his clothing made by their grip. It was almost like the person was making up for the scare. Uncharacteristically sheepish. 

An apology? Had it been accidental? 

He squirmed as the fingers became more purposeful, kneading his side. It was only after a few seconds of tickles that he’d realized a fingertip was drawing a pattern onto the side of his ribcage. Lopsided, what with the strange canvas they were using, but still recognizable. He traced the pattern in his own head to make sure it matched, and it did. He felt himself relax. The pattern was a positive thing. Something that connected him to the person. And they were being gentle, too, instead of admonishing him. 

So maybe the deathgrip _had_ been accidental? 

Almost immediately after he’d recognized the pattern, the person smiled against his mouth, stretching the wound on his tongue. The increase in pain went unnoticed by him. Whether the smile was in approval, pride, happiness, or some mix of all three, it eased Suzuki’s fear of impending death to almost nothing. He was in no trouble. The person drew another pattern on his side as if in confirmation, gentle and feather-like. Then another one: even gentler; slower. Then one finger turned to five, and they held his waist with enough intimacy to make a lover blush—which he wasn’t, but he still blushed. _I’m sorry,_ the fingers seemed to say. Or maybe _My bad_ fit their persona better. 

Suzuki made a move to pull back and tell them that he didn’t mind. Really, he didn’t. Before he could make any significant progress, though, the person made a low rumbly noise, less of a growl and more of a grunt, and he froze in place. It was then that he remembered where his tongue was: impaled on their canine. At that moment, sensation in his mouth returned. Hot, moist, wet, burning—that was how it felt. His flush deepened to a point where the room became humid and the pain in his tongue somewhat pleasurable. 

But even _he_ knew that leaving his tongue there was impractical, so he resolved to unpierce himself. _Have to be careful,_ he told himself, then cautiously pulled his quivering tongue from their tooth. It hurt but only slightly. At least it hadn’t pierced through to the other side of his tongue. As the tooth unearthed, he could feel every fibrous nerve in his tongue brush up against the smoothness of their canine, and it kind of sort of maybe felt good. Not like he was ever going to admit that. He wondered if he could escape from teasing about his hidden masochism, but a rub of a thumb that dug into his hip bone told him all he needed to know.

When the canine finally popped free, his tongue shook and trembled in place like it was confused. Apparently the apple didn’t fall far from the tree because Suzuki himself felt a little fuzzy too. What was he supposed to do in a kiss now that his tongue had been, for a lack of better words, _stabbed?_ If he were to play with them with an injured tongue, it’d hurt too much. Plus, they clearly didn’t like it when he bled on them...or maybe they did? He thought they liked it, but..? _Too risky._ He decided not to test them any further. What if they got upset and just left him here? 

“!...” Suzuki squeezed the lock of his arms tighter around their neck. The thought of being abandoned—his mouth soured at the word—made every part of his body tense in apprehension. Somehow, though, the fear was muted. _They wouldn’t leave me if they were the one who sought me out._ And that made sense to him now more than ever. They were confirmed to be watching him, taking care of him, cleaning his bed...and now they were here cuddling him up like they were making up for lost time. 

Why do all that just to leave him? 

So Suzuki smothered his crying fit and instead tried to humor himself. No good in being sad for no reason. 

Though, he _did_ have reason to be sad. He’d been put out of commission all because he wanted to play with the person’s teeth a little. _No more French kisses for me,_ he thought. At least he could still kiss them, just not with a lot of tongue. His tongue was like a vending machine out of order; no, wait, a _soldier_ shot out of combat. His tongue died serving its country of Kiss Kiss. He’d have to hold an honorable memorial service for it. After all, it served him so well in combat against Sir _I-have-too-sharp-teeth._

“...” 

A sudden giggle bubbled past his lips and into the person’s mouth. It was high and shy, a cliche _hehehe._ His chest shook with laughter as he pulled his tongue away from theirs, back into his own mouth. It stung without the warmth of their saliva. Droplets of blood trickled from the wound. Even worse, it was sore after being stretched out for an extended period of time, and he rolled it around and around to make it less stiff. It didn’t take long for him to realize that this wasn’t an appropriate time to laugh. He forced himself to quiet down into a seriousness suited to the situation at hand. 

“...” Yes, serious. He had to be serious. After all, he’d just injured himself; stabbed his tongue while kissing them. He was doing a pretty good job keeping face considering he was thinking about making a mini-coffin for his tongue. What should he engrave on its headstone? _Here lies Monsieur Tongue; killed in battle. An honorable being. Persevered through Fun Dip cum, maybe-vampires, and penises._ The thought almost made him erupt in another fit of giggles, but he reigned it in with a shaky inhale through his nose. Serious! He needed to be serious.

But then the person gave their own laugh: four quick puffs of air from their nose that quickly devolved into throat chuckles. From there Suzuki couldn’t hold back any longer, and he exhaled in glee, still not quite disconnected from their mouth. Then the snickering came. Faintly he realized that laughing in an intimate situation like this was rude, but even so, the thought of his suddenly French tongue in a coffin, dolled up in a military outfit with googly eyes...how was he supposed to keep quiet? And he’d—he’d just stabbed his tongue on their _teeth?_ What was this? The Struggles of Having a Fanged Lover, volume 2? 

_How absurd—_

“I-I’m sorry,” he said in between breaths, slurring against their lips. He was _this_ joyful when he’d been bleeding from the mouth a few minutes ago? “I’m...It hurts, but I’m okay; jus’ can’t—stop laugh—”

The person shushed him, a _shhh_ against his lips even though they themselves were now laughing as loud as he was, and somehow that just made it all the more hilarious. How loud the two of them were being was no good, though, so of _course_ the person pushed him back and completely sealed his lips with theirs. He didn’t stop laughing, not quite, but he dedicated his energy to kissing them and that subsequently made him quieter. Trying to focus on not using his tongue out of habit took more concentration than he’d like to admit. 

Ah...Shutting him up with a kiss—that’s what a lover would do, wouldn’t it? The thought made him flush a deeper red, but at the same time another rush of bubbly laughter escaped from his nose. Leave it up to Sir _let-me-fuck-you-near-your-parents_ to keep him quiet. If not their lips, it’d be their hands shutting him up. And if not either, it’d be their cock, wouldn’t it?

Suzuki tittled more giggles from his nose. The person responded by pressing him further until his back was semi-stretched over the sink, the same position as before. This time, though, it’s unstable. His head didn’t quite reach the mirror, but still they pressured him back. Without the use of his hands to keep him steady—which were still wrapped around the person’s neck—he felt the beginnings of a toppling balance. He braced himself by moving his hands to the person’s shoulders and pushing back, but it felt like that just made it worse. 

Suzuki broke the kiss, ignoring the strand of saliva that snapped onto his chin. “W-Wait, please don’t kiss me like…’m gonna fall into the sink s-so—ah...”

Everything paused. The person paused, he paused, the air paused. He stopped breathing just to savor the moment of utter self-realization. 

_Wow, when am I ever going to say a line like that again?_

The person pressed their forehead against his, hot; warm; solid, and made a _ss-s-shhh-h_ sound like they were trying to scold him for ruining the moment. He wiggled his butt to say _what moment; you mean making out on the sink?_ and the person shook their head in mock disbelief, rubbing their forehead against his. It made him a little self-conscious of his skin—was it bumpy?—but nonetheless fed the fun. He returned the forehead rub with one of his own, just to get back at them for having such sharp teeth that they’d stabbed him when all he wanted was to play. A forehead eskimo kiss, kind of. The two of them spent the next few seconds rubbing their foreheads together, maybe creating some sort of fire like the camping techniques he’d seen in videos. 

Then they both stopped, reflected, and went into another bout of giggles. Rubbing their foreheads against each other in the bathroom...

 _This is ridiculous,_ Suzuki thought to himself with a smile. It felt exactly like when he and his friends couldn’t stop laughing at something dumb. Maybe it was something someone said, something someone saw. Anything, and just a look would trigger his and his friends’ funny bones. He loved it when that happened. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he also loved _this,_ however more intimate it may be. All the teasing and uncontrollable giggles—it felt special. This was bonding for him and the person in its own right. Laughter, kissing, touching. Something besides sex; maybe something even _more_ than sex.

And he couldn’t help but wonder: did the person do this with anyone else? Was this how lovers acted? Were the two of them lovers? 

His laughter eventually calmed down, making way for a new, perhaps familiar emotion to fill his chest. It was mellow and full, swelling his lungs and at the same time compressing his chest until he couldn’t get a good enough breath. Suzuki stilled in front of the person’s face with parted lips and half-lidded eyes, panting for breath after laughing for so long. The person paused as well, maybe sensing that something had changed in him. But nothing had changed, nothing at all. He was still just a boy who didn’t know anything, who couldn’t see anything; and they were still just a person who knew everything, who _was_ everything. At least to him.

_And what am I to you?_

Suzuki made a meek noise when the person recaptured his lips, a quiet _nh_ swallowed up by warmth. It was gentler, graver. Like a deep importance was being carried from their mouth to his, but it was neither heavy nor alarming. Just a kiss...but it felt like he was being sweetly dominated from the inside out. A willing slave to intimacy. Their lips covered his with closeness rivaling that of interlocked hands, shutting any breath that might escape him and silencing any words that would give way to his insecurities. His submissive whimper was easily stifled.

Inside, his tongue wavered in indecision, stuck dumb and narrow. He wanted to use it but was afraid how. Teasingly, but this time merciful enough to make his chest constrict with indescribable emotion, the person poked the underside of his tongue with a hard, knubby tip. The tip of their tongue, he realized. They continued to knead a squishy spot until his appendage flattened to a soft blob. With that, they coaxed him back into playing as he’d done before, and with the great encouragement he managed to try. 

But now his movements were choppy. His tongue was a child wandering lost and jumping at the smallest of sounds. It made him feel inadequate, and it was less from the fact that _he_ knew he could do better and more from the fact that _they_ knew he could do better. Yet despite that, the person showed no signs of impatience, no signs of disappointment. There was only slow, careful guidance, as well as a pleased smile as his tongue bumbled its way around. 

It was clear they were waiting for him to get his fill—no, _letting_ him get his fill. Encouraging him. They were enjoying his kitten licks and shy squirming; his cold body and grabby hands; his timid pleasure. It was to the point that he felt he was both the one being spoiled and the one doing the spoiling. An oozing goo of warmth traveled slowly through his chest, enveloping his doubts and swallowing them. He was pleasing them like the good boy he was, that’s why, even though he was just doing what he wanted. He pressed his body upwards, or at least tried to, and felt the person breathe out a soft sigh of a breath from their nose. _Good boy,_ it confirmed as it feathered over his skin, and he made the quietest, most pleased noise in the back of his throat. _All for you, Sir._

One of the person’s hands gently made itself known by trailing up his shoulder, brushing up against his neck with its knuckles. He acknowledged it with a tilt of his head. They grazed his skin with their nails, brushing through invisible hairs with enough delicacy to make him tremble. A scratch behind the ears made his thighs twitch. 

He couldn’t stop from moaning once the fingers weaved into his hair. Spots of heat spread through his scalp as they pressed their fingers down, like blots of ink bleeding on a piece of paper. He gave the person’s shoulders a curl of his fingers, pleased. Their nails scratched across his scalp in response, against the grain of hair. Then, a slow massage was given to him, around and around, twisting a lock. More importantly they kept playing with his follicles, and he could feel the twisting digging deep into his nerves. He whined when the stimulation became more than he expected. It was a true whine, one that came out as a loud, keening _hnngh_ that the person chuckled at. 

Probably just to make him spew the noise again, they gave him another scratch, harder into his scalp and scraping against his follicles. He managed to tamp the noise down this time, much to the person’s disappointment. In exchange for his silence, though, his body felt a flare of sensation. _Keep quiet,_ his mind supplied to him, blotting out parts of his rationality. _I have to keep quiet? Something will be done to me?_

The sensation was strong enough for his arousal to stir. A Pavlovian response of sorts.

It seemed right, then, to finally separate. At least for now. He had no intention to chase after such heat in his contented haze. In the back of his head, he also reasoned that he wouldn’t have time to do what he wanted even if he did. His own satisfaction—that would come easy. _He_ would come easy, but he wanted—more than anything—to at least please them as best as he could. He needed more time for that; not now. Ah, yes...it was only then that he remembered the family was waiting for him. How long had he been in the restroom? He couldn’t remember. 

He wondered, carelessly, about the things that would surely plague his mind later. Would the person wait for him too? Would they let him do what he wanted? To waste their time in hopes of showing his worth, would that be selfish? Was he a waste of time? 

A finger in his hair moved. Slight; a fraction of an inch that would’ve been unnoticeable if not for the sensitivity of his scalp. He waited out his thoughts to see if the person would do anything else, but the finger remained still. Quiet. 

And so he wrote off the movement as something he’d looked too much into. 

Suzuki remembered again that he was running out of time. Any longer and the family would come looking for him. Still, even with his resolve to stop, it felt wrong to pull away—or more truthfully, he couldn’t find it in himself to do it. So instead of moving his head back and away from their lips, he tilted to the side and ran his right hand to the back of their neck. A request. 

He ran his index finger up and down the dip of their nape, enjoying the softness of peach fuzz. They hummed and obliged with a soundless slick of tongue. They gave his bottom lip a farewell swipe, withdrawing too soon for him to return the notion. Though they were only inches from his face, he found it awkward to stick his tongue out to lick them back.

So he didn’t. 

And if he was being honest with himself, it made him sad. The childishness of his feelings made him grit his teeth in embarrassment, and his finger stuttered over their skin, creating static. Getting upset because he didn’t get to lick them goodbye...how absurd that he was actually _pouting._

The person huffed in amusement, then took a quick breath. Suzuki had milliseconds to prepare himself for the reconnection of his and the person’s lips. His eyes widened at the sudden feeling of moist warmth, heightened by the coldness of leftover saliva from the previous kiss. This time, the person was the one who gave him the signal: a small dig of their index finger into the edge of his scalp. Suzuki took the sliver of a chance to suck on their bottom lip, nibbling on it just because he could. When the person made the move to actually pull away, he lapped at their lips in an excited farewell. _I’ll miss you, I’ll miss you!_ his tongue yapped away. 

The separation was even quieter this time. He panted for breath before self-consciously shutting his mouth, embarrassed after putting in so much effort to make up for the missed chance. 

The proximity of the person’s face made it easy to feel their grin. Suzuki turned his head away and felt his lips stretch over his teeth in a frown, characteristic of a smile trying to stay hidden. The person tutted in mock disapproval, reminiscent of Aunt Emi when she’d heard of how little he went out on weekends. 

They nudged his head straight with three fingers on his chin, a familiar feeling that made him bite the inside of his lip. He averted his eyes even though he couldn’t see. He could _feel_ their eyes on him, that’s why; could feel a gaze running over his features with enough intensity to put scientists to shame. His flush spread and emanated warmth until he was sure even the fingers on his chin could feel it. Eventually he realized that they were probably waiting for him to speak, and he, without really thinking about it, said:

“Thank you…” softly, so so softly. Barely a whisper, if it could even be called that. It was just a mouthing of _thank_ ending in a hard _kh,_ which lent a hand to the word _you._ The person crooned, and maybe he was imagining the utter adoration heard in their voice. They gave his chin a tickle—similar to how one would scratch a cat’s chin with more of a rub. A sense of giddiness filled him, perhaps egged on by how nice it had felt to be treated like a ‘good kitty.’ So again, and this time in a louder voice, he said, “Thank you, Sir…” 

And he felt the person’s face move away. The distance made him jump into action, perking him up like a rat catching scent of cheese. His nails were digging into the person’s nape before he even knew it, helped by the strain of stretching his arms out. They must’ve stepped back from him. He was reaching far enough for his butt to almost come off the sink. He furrowed his brow in question, letting out a soft _ss_ that was the barest beginnings of the word _Sir._

He was cut off by a chuckle. The person pressed their thumb into his mouth, pushing against his teeth and easing him back down. It took several nudges for him to obediently settle. He had to loosen his hold on their neck and shoulders to seat himself completely, but he stubbornly kept his hands where they lay. Because it was offered to him, he sucked the tip of their thumb past his teeth, giving it a shallow imprint of a bite. 

He’d take anything he could get. 

A nail gently scratched the line of his jawline in approval, belonging to the hand that had a thumb in his mouth. _Good boy._ Bubbly elation made him smile, a small upturn of the lips that was shy and happy. He absently tongued underneath their thumb nail as he basked in the glow of praise. 

The person hummed, once again seemingly full of adoration, and bent down to give his forehead a kiss. They slipped their hand from his mouth and brushed through the top of his head, holding back his bangs. He could tell they purposely kept their wet thumb away from his skin. Their lips left a coolness that was both comforting and sad. It was familiar, too familiar, and Suzuki realized it felt like the kisses his mother would give him when he was younger. _Have a good day at school, Haru-chan! I love you. Stay safe. Come home soon._

“You’re leaving…” he whispered softly, more to himself than to anyone else. It was an observation; profound though simple. The person froze, fingers locking in his hair and going still, midway pulling away from him. Suzuki made a quiet noise in protest, nudging their hand with his head. He slipped his hands from their neck and shoulders to grasp at their wrist, weighing it down. 

_Keep touching me_

Almost cautiously, the person resumed their motions. They combed through his hair with careful scratches to his scalp, making him shiver and wobble back and forth. He wondered if they liked how silky his hair was; or if they knew how he took care of his appearance now that he was touched by them. They knew, right? If they’d watched him. 

The person became bolder, and they curled their fingers confidently in his hair, circling around to give his chin a scratch. He raised his head automatically. With a soft purr, they cupped his ear with their palm, warming the cold-prone extremity. 

Suzuki shamelessly revelled in the attention. He nudged his cheek into their hand like a needy pet, rubbing their fingers across his face. The digits slipped against him like water to a glass surface. The callus of their fingers was rougher than his. Real. Concrete. Eventually he ended up with two of their fingers in his mouth, to the knuckle. If he was ever asked how, he’d say it was accidental. It wasn’t as lewd as it was self-comforting, and he licked the salt off their fingers for no other reason than to taste it; to feel it. To compare it to his own.

The person went along with his actions, but he could tell their patience was running thin. He could feel it, the urgency. Thinness in the air. He didn’t blame them, and logically he didn’t mind. He knew he needed to get out of the bathroom soon. With one final suck, he slipped their fingers out of his mouth, scraping his teeth across the folded skin of their knuckles. He slotted his own fingers between the crevices of theirs, feeling the coldness of his saliva dampen his skin. The person helped solidify the hold with a squeeze. He smiled, then, bringing their interlocked hands to his face. He rubbed his cheek against their hand and closed his eyes at the warmth.

“I’ll be a good boy,” he said softly, not really thinking about it; just needing to get it out. His breath fanned over the person’s knuckles, kissing the skin with heat. Holding their hand felt as good as it did last time. “I’ll be a good boy, I promise,” _so please come back later._

—

**7:17 PM (After Dinner)**

Undressing, as Suzuki has found out, is virtually impossible now that he knows he’s being watched. It’s dumb considering the person who’s watching him has had sex with him, but that’s...actually that’s even worse! God. Not to mention the place he’s undressing in is the place he promised _he’d be a good boy?_ The place he’d begged to get fucked in? In his cousins’ _restroom?_

God, all the memories are flowing back to him now.

He buries his face in his hands, feeling his cheeks warm his palms. He doesn’t remember what his thought process had been to lead him to say all those things. He hadn’t even remembered most of what he’d said until he was standing in front of the mirror staring at the hickey on his neck! 

And despite his embarrassment, thinking about the mark sends a flutter through his heart. The smile that stretches his lips is hopelessly wide. It’s dumb, he knows, but having something concrete to remind of him of the person...something he can touch and see…his heart swells with glee.

Just to see it again, he removes his hands from his face, shyly tilting his head and pivoting so his neck is bared to the mirror. He avoids making eye contact with himself as he studies his neck. He hadn’t had a chance to look at himself before the person ushered him out of the restroom earlier, so right now he’s making up for lost time. He eats up the sight with starved eyes. The hickey seems stark and pointed against his skin, popping with how pale he is. It’s worryingly noticeable, but it looks so…!

He understands now why the person had given him a collared jacket to cover himself with. At the time, he  didn’t know where it came from, nor did he know how the person acquired it, but he appreciates that they were looking out for him. It would’ve been awkward dinner otherwise. 

When they’d first pushed the jacket into his hands, it felt like he was a one night stand getting kicked out in the morning. He huffs a laugh at his own comparison. But the jacket actually did good to hide the mark, and—he’ll never admit this aloud—he loves that he can smell hints of their scent when he turns his nose into the collar. 

Suzuki runs a nail across the bite and digs in until a crescent imprint is left on his skin, smiling to himself at the sting of pain. It feels _good._ It’s such a pretty color: bright purple, maybe berry if he’s being specific. Lighter than he’d like it to be, so it’ll fade sooner than later. He steps up to the mirror to see it better, leaning over the sink. His eyes hurt trying to peer downwards, but he doesn’t mind. Up close, he can see the scabby parts of the love bite—pricks from the person’s teeth where they’d played with him. He feels a shier smile tug at his lips, and he covers his mouth with his right hand, averting his eyes from the mirror. 

_“…!”_

Then he catches sight of the bathtub and remembers he has to take a shower. There’s a movie starting in the living room that he has to join and watch. 

Right. 

To take that shower, he has to undress. And he has a problem with that because the person is sure to be watching him. 

Right. Watching him. Right now.

Suzuki takes in a deep, deep, _deep_ breath;

and lets it out in a big rush, covering his eyes with his hand. Look at him being a dork and staring at himself in the mirror. Half a jacket on, sleeve hanging loosely on his body, all excited because he has a _hickey,_ of all things. _Embarrassing._ He steps back from the mirror and peeks his eyes past his fingers, meeting his own gaze. An appalling sense of deja vu hits him like a wave, and he makes a breathy screeching noise in the back of his throat, sounding like a kettle at its boil. 

It occurs to him that the person probably saw him geeking out over losing his first kiss too. His breathy screeching goes up an octave. _Embarrassing!_ He tries his best to tamp down the noise, really he does, self-consciously shifting his feet. Maybe it’s a placebo effect, but he can feel tickling sensations up his spine; on his nape. Like electricity. He has enough experience to attribute it to someone’s gaze, especially after feeling it the entire day.

It reminds him of the shocks he’d endured during what he’s dubbed as the “pre-dinner makeout session.” It takes a few moments for the memory to really take hold, and when it does, he shudders from it, gripping his free hand to the sink’s countertop. It had actually felt so good...too strong. Suzuki drops his hand from his eyes to his mouth, averting his gaze to the right. An intrusive thought wriggles into his mind: What would it be like to orgasm while shocked? A total loss of control. He’d be left boneless; vulnerable. Free to take. Hypersensitive and weak. His hole would be lax and pretty, welcoming to any cock—the _person’s_ cock—that happened to push against it. The thought sends a dangerous tingle to his gut, and he feels himself squeeze his legs together. 

 _Not good._ A swell of heat makes him dig his nails into his cheek, something that quickly dies as a full, mellow feeling of warmth. It’s reminiscent of an orgasmic glow, soft and tingling, and he has to take several moments to calm down. He can’t chase after anything, after all. The last thing he wants to do is masturbate in his cousins’ restroom. He knows it’s ironic since he’d already gotten ruined in their _living_ room, of all things, but doing it to himself...while the person watches him…

Suzuki grits his teeth at the excitement that rushes through his body. _Definitely_ not good. 

He does his best to swallow down his arousal, eyeing the bathtub for distraction. A niggle of embarrassment finds its way back to his mind, but it’s easier to slap it back in place.

So what if he’s being watched? It’s nothing new. He’s just taking a shower is all. Undressing on his own...so what? It’s not like it’s the first time he’s expected their eyes to be on him. Granted, it’s different now that he _knows,_ but Suzuki reasons with himself that it’s not too big of a jump to go from expectation to reality. He was able to undress and take a shower this morning, so why not now? 

Besides, taking a shower is inevitable. Undressing is inevitable. If he wants to be fucked—and he bites the inside of his lip because _God,_ he does—then being naked is inevitable. It’s either he goes out there to explain why he suddenly doesn’t want to take a shower, in the process interrupting a Kung Fu Panda movie, _or_ he accepts that it be like that sometimes and strips naked.

Suzuki nods to himself.

He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the doorknob, taking extra care that it doesn’t slip off and onto the floor. Once it’s situated, he steps back and looks at it. Really looks at it. It’s fleece; black. It’ll easily slip off the metal of the doorknob if it’s not secure, but he thinks he’s done enough for it not to. It fits his style: simple and efficient. A lot of his sweatpants should match it. The sleeves are long enough for him to pull them past his palms like a sweater paw. The zipper goes down smooth. 

He likes it a lot.

“......” 

Out of lightning quick impulse, Suzuki snatches the jacket off the doorknob and buries his face in it, inhaling deeply. Characteristic of porous fabric, he feels his breath suck in coldness through the fleece. Even so, it smells so _good._ Fresh laundry, but warmer, muddled; so much more intimate. He can smell something else besides the person’s distinguishable scent, and he can only guess that it’s his own. The thought makes his heart soar. He exhales to warm the fabric, then inhales again. He hasn’t had a chance to give the jacket a good sniff, but now…

His face flushes when he thinks about how the person is _definitely_ watching him sniff his clothing, but he resolves to—and it feels impossibly good to think this—not care! Instead, he smiles into the fleece, riding on giddiness. They gave him a jacket! A jacket that fits him! Maybe it was just a coincidence, and they didn’t think much of the jacket they were choosing...but what if they did? What if they chose it based off of what he likes? Based off what he wears? 

He has half a mind to throw out the thoughts in place of something less pathetic, but they make him too happy to try. 

Suzuki tamps down his smile before bringing the jacket away from his face. His cheeks are sore from smiling and his face is flush with pink, but he’s able to keep a straight-ish face as he re-hangs the jacket on the doorknob. The fleece is wrinkled and stiff from how he’d held it to his face, so he has to pull down and aggressively mold it to the knob for it to stay put. 

As he backs away from the door, he catches sight of something on his skin. Just out of habit he glances to the mirror. He makes a quiet _ah_ when he realizes the thing he’d seen was the hickey, as bright and purple on his skin as ever. His fingers go to it for survey. Rubbing down on the mark lightens it for a quick second before color rushes back, similar to how his nails work. He brings an index finger to eye-level and pushes down on its nail, watching it turn a yellow-ish white that quickly morphs back to a salmon pink. 

It’s then that he catches himself smiling dumbly in the mirror, mouth parted with teeth showing. He clicks his mouth shut and lowers his hand. Instead of just embarrassment, though, his chest fills with an airy feeling of awe. _Happy._ He’s happy again. He uses it to move on auto-pilot, stripping out of his shirt and pulling his arms from his sleeves. His nipples rub up against rough fabric, stinging. It’s all made better once he looks back in the mirror and sees the mark on his neck. His flush reaches down to his chest, pink and visible, but it’s muted and yellowed by bathroom light. He tries not to notice the redness of his nipples even with it. 

He’s taken his phone out of his pocket before he even realizes, and he stares at the black screen in a moment of wonder. Another sense of deja vu hits him like a drop of rain. _You kids n’ em’ phones._ It does nothing to dampen his mood. He waits a second to see if anything pops up on the screen—maybe a notification from his group chat, a notification from Michael, a Schoology notification, or something from the person. Hopefully from the person. But he doesn’t expect anything, and nothing shows up. 

He places his phone face-down on the sink counter.

His fingers hesitate over the band of his sweatpants. His shirt is one thing, but his pants are another. He glances at the bathtub again and focuses his hearing to outside the door. It’s difficult to hear past the ventilation system, but he can imagine the excited whispers of the kids as the Kung Fu Panda movie begins its adventure. He’d told them that it was okay for them to start without him since he’d already watched it, but they’d insisted on waiting for him. 

 _“Give me ten minutes,”_ he’d said to Kenneth. _“If I’m not back by then, just start it, okay? I don’t want you to miss your curfew.”_

Kenneth had pouted at first, but a smile was enough to tide the boy over. Thankfully.

He reaches for his phone to check the time but freezes once he’s within inches of his case. He has a hunch that he’s already wasted enough time to be late. _No good in making the kids wait any longer._ The thought gives him the push to hook his fingers beneath the bands of his pants and underwear. He bends down to pull them to his knees, then steps out. The fabric clings to his legs and flops inside-out like noodles. The change in temperature makes him shiver, and cold air passes over his skin unforgivingly.

He steadfastly keeps his gaze away from his crotch as he picks up his clothing. If he looks at it, meaning his penis, then he’ll remember it, and if he remembers it…

Suzuki swallows as he hoists his knee up. If he were to look in the mirror right now, he’d definitely look hot and bothered; flushed and thinking about things unsuitable for his age. He doesn’t bother to check, too busy folding his clothing into a neat little stack. His mother taught him to fold his clothes when he was young. _Be polite; be easy._

He can usually do it without a thought, but this time he focuses hard on keeping his hands steady. He can’t let his mind wander. Really, he can’t, because if he does, then he’s going to remember that he’s being watched. He’s naked, and that makes him vulnerable, and if the person were to decide to show up, then he couldn’t really fight it, could he? Well, not like he _wants_ to fight it, but the kids were...waiting...and he doesn’t have an ounce of self-control. More than anything he’d love to get on his knees—without being asked to, this time—and swallow their cock past his throat because he’s...and—

Ah. There he goes again. Suzuki makes a blurb of noise in the back of his throat as he hurriedly sets his folded clothing on top of his phone, covering it. A familiar flash of color catches his eye, this time not from the mirror. He looks down to his left thigh in confusion. Surely he doesn’t have a hickey on his _thigh,_ and—and when he looks, he doesn’t, but—

“Oh,” he says softly, out of awe. He runs his fingers over the deep, crescent imprints left on his skin, feeling the ridges of inflammation. They’re a strong color of bruising purple and red, and when he catches his own nails in the imprints, which dwarf his in comparison, a sting of pain runs through his entire leg. He can tell which fingers made which crescent, the pinky being the smallest and the ring finger the deepest. They’re faded, slightly, but more so they don’t seem to be going anywhere for a few days.

_Good_

Suzuki can’t help the rush of euphoria that lights up his face. They’ve given him another mark, that’s why. They let him keep another memento! He bites his lip when he remembers where it’s from and how it got there— _slish slish slish—_ but the faint arousal is nothing against the thrill of happiness thrumming through his veins. It’s stupid, maybe, to get so excited over something that’s essentially an injury, but he doesn’t care. He whispers something inaudible, maybe a _thank you_ that he doesn’t want to materialize into something concrete. It’s too embarrassing if he does, too wrong if he doesn’t. 

Out of impulse, Suzuki looks to the mirror, turns, and surveys his butt to see if there’s any marks there too. He squints, really squints, and goes so far as to grip one of his cheeks to spread himself. It’s clean. Clear. The only mark is a quickly fading hand print left by his own hand. Vaguely, he registers that what he’d just done was off-the-top embarrassing, but he happily distracts himself with pouting about having nothing on his butt. 

He skips over to the shower without much thought, high off the thrill of having two memories. Now that he knows of them, the marks on his thigh sting with every movement of his leg, but he doesn’t mind. If anything, he loves it. He hopes they never disappear, though he knows they will. Just like the mark on his neck, they won’t last.

But that just means he’ll have to earn more in their place. 

Once in the shower, Suzuki lets out a characteristic squeak when he gets blasted with ice. He feels bad about using the family’s hot water, though, so he turns the knob to only a semi-manageable temperature. With how much his hands shake, it takes a few tries to grab a proper hold of the handle. The temperature he settles with isn’t lukewarm, nor is it scalding like he’d prefer, but it’s better than freezing. He tells himself that he needs to rush through his shower anyway if he wants to make it to the movie.

The knowledge that cold water lessens inflammation—and therefore quickens the process of an injury healing—helps him speed up his shower too. 

He ends up taking only **seven minutes** in the shower **.** He does a double-take when he notices his phone is on _top_ of his folded, dirty clothing, face-up, but he pays it little mind as he rushes to throw his clean clothing on before he freezes to death.

**7:31 PM**

The sound of Chinese music is a good sign as he walks, slowly, to the living room. That means the movie has already started. He’s not sure how far into it the kids are, but he guesses that it’s around the five minute mark. He’d taken a quick shower, after all. Regardless of how long the movie’s been running, though, it’s a good distraction for his entrance. If he manages to sneak in without being detected, then he won’t have to indulge the kids with answers to questions he doesn’t know how to answer. 

_What took you so long? How come you’re still wearing the jacket? You’re cold? Do you want to sit with us? We can fit!_

It’s sad that he has an appropriate response to only one of those questions, but it can’t be helped. It’s both a good and bad thing that he’s still shivering. On one hand, it looks like he’s walking on stilts with how jittery his legs are. On the other, it’ll be easy to explain the jacket. _Oh, I’m just cold. Don’t worry._ For the other questions though...He doesn’t know how to explain that he was admiring his love marks for a good ten minutes. He _especially_ doesn’t know how to explain that he plans to get violated during the movie, and therefore can’t sit with them. That’d be...

 _Too much._ Suzuki hugs his jacket to his body as he looks to the ground, curling his fingers in his jacket pockets. His cheeks are warmer than his entire body. His crotch is also a little warm too, but he pays it no mind. Like this, his jacket collar surrounds him. It still smells like the person, though faint. Just a hint of linen warmed with condensation. He ducks his nose to his chest. He’ll smell more like the person once he meets them again. He’ll make sure to get as much of their scent on him before they leave. 

But it occurs to him, then, that he can only _assume_ the person will be there, in his seat, once he arrives to the living room. That’s the only place he knows for sure. They could be somewhere else where they’re not seen since they’re invisible and all, but...the game? Surely the “little” game they mentioned is supposed to be played during the movie. That situation leaves only the recliner as a rendezvous. That’s only if the game is something they’re _both_ participating in, of course. 

He frowns and reassures himself that it is.

But what if they’re not there? A nagging worry eats away at his blush, and a frown takes the place of his smile. They never designated a time to reappear; in fact, he doesn’t remember if they promised to reappear at all! So what if they never come again? His heart squeezes in terror. No, no; he can’t think like that, really? After everything in the bathroom? 

But if they’re not there now, then when? Will they make him wait again? How long? Longer? Months? Years? 

His steps falter to a stop. Here he goes again, worrying about the smallest of things. But is it really so small if he never sees them again? But surely they wouldn’t do that to him, no? Yes? No? _Please,_ no. God, no...He can’t...his breathing quickens, but with effort he forcibly slows it. He knows he can’t be sure, but there’s too much ambiguity for him to be at ease regardless. _Would_ they abandon him like that? He doesn’t know, really truly doesn’t, and he won’t ever know if he stays here in his thoughts. He won’t know if he never sees for himself. He has to move forward. He knows _that,_ at least.

Suzuki swallows and trudges forward. It feels like a march to his death, however exaggerated he’ll call himself later. His dread grows with the volume of the Chinese music, and his steps become smaller and smaller the closer the entryway gets. He takes in a breath and holds it as he steps to the threshold. _Please be there._ He doesn’t want to think about how he’ll feel if they’re not. The breath burns his lungs, and it feels like his chest is going to implode from building pressure, but it keeps him grounded enough to keep going. If he doesn’t, then he’ll die from lack of oxygen. An ultimatum. Go or die. 

_Please_

He stops right before he crosses the entryway. He hates how helpless he feels—physically and mentally. He wishes he wasn’t such a coward. This kind of thing is what makes people hate him, probably, though he’s hidden it well enough amongst his friends. _This,_ though...he can’t hide this. Try as he may, he knows he can’t hide from someone who watches him; takes care of him; knows what he’s afraid of—perhaps more than his own parents—and maybe that’s what made him so attached. Maybe that’s why he feels like he’s at his limit every time something goes wrong, or every time something isn’t explicitly stated. He’s hanging onto his encounters with the person by a thread. He’s dependent on a wordless, assumed promise of more.

And he hates, more than anything, that that kind of thing just can’t be helped. 

Suzuki grits his teeth and digs his nails into his palms, feeling the familiar sting. It’s not nearly as good as the throbbing marks on his thighs, nor the tingling hickey on his neck, and as his knuckles brush over the soft fleece of his interior jacket pockets, he—

He releases his breath. 

“...” _Sonic!_

And with that, he dashes into the living room with his eyes closed, whipping his hands out of his pockets.

...which is all good and fun until his cold-stiffened limbs trip. His body slams into the unseen recliner, and his arms end up dangling like noodles over the top of the chair. His head presses up against leather as his face points towards the floor, like a wall-headbutt but sadder. He makes a noise mixed between pain and laughter because _wow_ he ran into something _twice_ today—and then he hears a rather amused chuckle, deep and familiar and partly surprised, snapping his eyes open to a darkened floor beneath his own pale feet, trembling and shivering—

_It’s—!_

_“Are you okay, Haru-nii?!”_ Kenneth half-yells, reminding him that he’s very much in the company of a crowd. A whispering chorus of _“is he okay?”_ and _“does it hurt?”_ fills the room, and suddenly Suzuki has the overwhelming urge to laugh. It’s not helped by the breathy laughter the person’s not even trying to muffle. He guesses it makes sense since nobody but him can hear them— _right?_ —but still…

Suzuki feels his face heat up from a mix of humiliation and giddiness.

He takes a moment to breathe and collect himself. He’s still woozy from how long he’d held his breath earlier. Eventually, he brings his face up from the floor, smiling an uncharacteristically huge smile. He catches a glimpse of the person’s— _white?—_ hair in his peripherals, but because he’s a good boy, he turns his head away so he doesn’t see it at all. He definitely files the sliver of information away for later though. 

 _“I’m okay!”_ He says brightly, bringing his hands up and tucking a strand of fly-away hair behind his ears. _“Sorry.”_

Kenneth seems mystified by his cheeriness. _“No, it’s okay! We were just—Are you hurt, Haru-nii? You’re okay, right? Right?”_

 _“Onii-chan, okay?”_ Keith pipes up, wobbly.

_“How did you fall? There’s nothing there…”_

_“Do you need a_ band-aid?” Amano asks, looking about ready to run into the kitchen for the first-aid kit.

God, they’re making him feel horrible. He holds back from hiding his face in his hands, but the smile on his face just can’t be hidden. The person’s laughter as a background to the kids’ barrage of worry and the ever-strong Chinese music— _what an absurd mix of noise._

He tries his best to morph his smile into one of reassurance.

 _“Yes! Yes, I’m okay. I just tripped over air. See?”_ He steps towards the couch, past the recliner, and does a mini-twirl, closing his eyes to make sure he doesn’t catch a peek of the person’s face. _“I’m okay!”_

He hears the person let out a flurry of chuckles at his demonstration, but he pays it as much mind as the kids do: none. The twirl accomplishes what he’d hoped for anyway. The kids, after a little nervous giggling, settle into a less distressed posture, easing back their shoulders and sitting flat on the couch. Amano no longer looks like a military medic on his last run to the supply station, and Ayako seems a little more impressed with him than before. Kenneth studies him with a furrowed brow, but eventually lets him off with a thrice-over. He, too, settles into the couch, but he doesn’t break eye-contact with Suzuki. 

There’s a few passing moments of awkward silence as Suzuki dutifully resists turning around.

 _“Okay,”_ Kenneth starts. Suzuki gives him an encouraging tilt of his head. _“Um, I’m sorry we started the movie without you.”_

He looks just like those guilty puppies Julie likes to show on Instagram. Suzuki purses his lips to hide the widening of his smile. Twiddling his fingers is enough to calm the bubbly emotion in his chest. So sweet!

 _“It’s alright. I told you to start it, didn’t I?”_ He smoothly backs up to the recliner without turning around, depositing himself onto the person’s lap with a _fwump._ They welcome him with a hug and a smiling kiss to the back of his head, still making some decidedly amused noises. _“Now we can finish the movie without breaking your curfew.”_

Kenneth looks a tad reassured. _“It’s really alright?”_

Suzuki opens his mouth to answer. He’s cut off when an arm squeezes around his waist, pulling him closer and dragging his body up their lap. The words on his tongue die at the feeling. _Strong._ The warmth of the person’s limbs is heightened by how cold he’d been before he sat down. He plays off his momentary slip-up by nodding enthusiastically, brushing his hair up against the person’s nose with each upward motion. 

 _“Yes, it’s alright!”_ He says, slightly high and breathless. He can tell his cheeks are pink, and he hopes the screenlight washes it out. The person chuckles and runs their hand up and down his thigh, putting pressure on the nail imprints through his clothing. _“S-See, I didn’t even miss much of the movie. I remember this from the last time I watched it.”_

_“Really?”_

As Kenneth speaks, the person tilts their head to place their mouth right next to his ear. Suzuki knows what’s coming, and he even holds his breath in unconscious anticipation. The person’s voice still manages to falter his blink.

 _“Yes,”_ they whisper, and the hiss of the word locks up his throat. Their grin is apparent as they slide their fingers to his inner thigh, rubbing the cloth of his sweatpants. Up, down, up, down. Dipping their fingers where they shouldn’t, slow and wrist-oriented. It’s an innuendo nobody can miss. Slight shame and dominant excitement floods his stomach. Suzuki digs his nails into the person’s forearm, biting back a noise. _Hot,_ their fingers are hot—he can feel them warming his crotch and his thighs, and it’s not—

“Y-Yes,” he squeaks, repeating what had been whispered in his ear. The person moves back to nose at the top of his head, huffing laughter. Suzuki has a vague, indignant thought that they’re teasing him again, but he doesn’t have the mind to care. He sees Kenneth blink in slight confusion, and only then—after a split second of a terror-filled question: _can Kenneth see them?—_ does Suzuki realize he’d answered a Japanese question in English. The terror leaves as quick as it consumed him, replaced by quiet shame.

 _It must’ve sounded strange._ A sheepish blush creeps onto his face. It can’t be helped; too late to fix it anyway.

 _Still,_ Suzuki wonders, _why can’t Kenneth see them?_ The person’s invisibility works in his favor, of course, so maybe he shouldn’t question it. But curiosity nags at him the same way his undone homework does. Right now, though, the reason why is far from the front of his mind. The only thing he can do now, _should_ do now, is divert the kids back to the movie. 

Only then can he get what he wants, which is some cuddle time and—he words it like this in his head just to humor himself—some fuck. The thought forces him to purse his lips to avoid smiling, and a couple of chortles from the person tells him he’s not the only one who thinks it’s funny. [Classics](https://i.imgur.com/kC7q3FN.png) really never die. 

He glances to the other kids and is relieved to see them looking at the screen. So, only Kenneth is left. That’s not too bad. He closes his eyes to collect himself, taking a deep breath. He’s about ready to speak when the person shifts back into the recliner and pulls him with them, bunching his shirt up beneath his jacket and rubbing his nipples. The crunch and creak of leather goes straight to his crotch, making him swallow a low whine. The heat of their arms on his front is no help either. _No good._  

He has a sudden thought that the movement must have looked unnatural to an outsider’s eye. Fear snaps his eyes open to Kenneth, but the boy is as passive as ever.

_Safe?_

The silence must’ve stretched for too long. A pat to his thigh, just a tad impatient, reminds him to speak. 

 _“Next time,”_ Suzuki starts, a little meek and a lot weak. Kenneth does a characteristic tilt of his head, looking equally worried and curious. Suzuki runs his fingers across the person’s wrist for support. _“Next time, let’s watch the rest of_ Kung Fu Panda, _okay?”_

Kenneth’s face lights up, surely at the prospect of there being a next time. He returns Suzuki’s smile with one of his own. It’s bright and wide until it dies down from modesty. If Suzuki’s being honest, the sight makes his heart twinge. Has he ever done that when he was younger? 

 _“Okay…!”_ Kenneth says, nodding his head down once. Then, he turns around with an air of quiet pleasedness, leaving Suzuki to himself and the person. 

But Suzuki waits. He watches the kids in case they decide to turn around, holding his breath. Ten seconds, fifteen, twenty. Twenty-two seconds pass before he breathes out in a rush and consequently relaxes. He settles into the crevices of the person’s lap, molding to their form. It’s only then that he notices how hard his heart is thumping, pulsing his chest outwards with each beat. He can feel every pump of blood through his vessels, interrupting his jitters with an extra beat of jumpiness. 

_Scared?_

The person noses at his hair, giving his scalp a gentle brush of their lips. He shudders at the feeling, disproportionately violent to the gentleness. He reasons to himself that it’s because his back is warm but his front, though covered by one of the person’s arms, is cold. He’s _vulnerable,_ not scared. 

Out of an instinctual need for comfort, he shifts to curl into the person’s chest. His butt scoots to plant itself on their thigh, strong and supported. His knees fold and unfold as he settles into place, and eventually, he hangs his feet over the recliner’s armrest. As his weight shifts, the leather creaks only minimally, cushioned by the person’s body. He pushes his head up against their shoulder, pulling their right arm around him and cuddling it to his chest. Their fingers give his chin a little twiddle in greeting.

It’s a familiar position—almost the same one as the other night. _Last_ night. Suzuki marvels at how much has happened in the span of a day. The span of mere hours. He’s dumped his entire life story on them, begged for release, cried buckets on buckets of tears. And what has he gotten in return? 

_Everything_

They’ve spoken to him; told him, no, _implied_ that they’ve been watching him, taking care of him… _loving him?_ He doesn’t know, but maybe. They’ve showered him with attention, haven’t they? They’ve held his hand, made him laugh...

Suzuki feels an inexplicable urge to cry. 

And this time, like all the other times, he swallows it down, curling tighter around the person’s arm and pulling them around him like a strange seatbelt. He feels his own body thaw from their warmth. Their arm stays lax in his hold, but their fingers are playful. The smile pressed to his head is one of loving indulgence. Just because he can, he guides two of their fingertips—their index and middle—to his mouth, licking them in. His tongue drags against the calluses of their fingers, dry enough to skid but wet enough for him to taste salt. 

He closes his eyes at the same time the person decides to catch the tip of his tongue between their fingertips. His eyes snap open, and his tongue goes rigid in confusion. It’s only when he feels a breathy chortle above him that he realizes what had happened. The person rolls the knubby tip of his tongue between their nails, digging their smile into his hair. A twiddle is thrown in for extra fun. _Cat got your tongue, cat got your tongue,_ he subs in for thought.

Suzuki can’t help the breath of laughter that rushes out of him. In an instant, a heaviness he hadn’t even realized relieves itself from his body. He smiles a full smile, teeth hovering above his tongue, still caught. He bites down on the person’s fingertips in retaliation, and they huff another laugh into his hair. His tongue slips from their hold. He’s able to give one last flick of his tongue—a _good_ flick, too; good enough for him to notice a slight falter in the person’s breath—before they pull their fingers from his mouth. They gently ease their arm from his hold, kissing his head to calm a spike of nerves. With their two still-wet fingertips, they nudge his head upwards and towards their face until he feels an imperative need to close his eyes. 

They hum their approval, deep and loving. _Good boy._ The sound vibrates through his fingertips, now grasped at their shirt and curled to his chest. In response, he breathes a soft noise that’s surely heard with the proximity of their face. The teasing scratch given to his chin confirms his assumptions, and he makes an even quieter noise in embarrassment. The hold on his chin stops him from pulling back. Their fingers are urging him far back enough to lean him away anyway, but they also seem to be chasing him by tilting their head downwards. He can feel soft wisps of breath on his eyelashes, nose, cupid’s bow; just a hitch warmer than the temperature of the room. He’s felt it enough times to know what’s coming, or what he _hopes_ is coming. And if it’s not coming, then...

He presses upward and connects his lips to theirs.

The person makes a pleased hum, almost one of surprise. They quickly encourage him forward with a new nudge to his chin, and they sit back as his hands clamber up their chest. He twists his body to completely face them. He ends at a slight vantage point above the person, supported by his knees still perched on their lap. Their hands slip from his torso to the small of his back as he settles, then slide beneath his butt as a makeshift seat. A squeeze—erupting a breathless squeak from his throat—tells him to go down. His knees slide outward and plant besides their thighs, lowering him until he’s assumably eye-level. Their nose just barely grazes his as he presses forward a bit more, tilting his head shy of an angle.

The shifting of fabric is subtle but all-telling. It’s made worse by the little moan he lets slip when their fingers curve into the cleft of his ass. Their smile tints with a smirk as his face burns hot enough to tingle. He breaks the closed kiss with a slick noise, too embarrassed to continue.

“!” He jumps when the person’s fingers creep deeper into the cleft of his ass, shielded by his sweatpants but not enough for him to not feel their nails. They rub—no, _scratch—_ at the sensitive knot beneath layers of fabric, slow and deliberate. The muted feelings of pressure, lines and lines of pleasure, make his thighs tense and untense as he tries to tamp the sudden flood of arousal. He slides downwards until his face is hidden in the crook of their neck, splaying his chest all over theirs like a puddle of goo.

_Undress me_

The thought pops into his mind as soon as he remembers the pattern. A rush of heat presses his ass down onto their fingers, legs trembling and eyes opened against their chest in a quiet plea. Every blink brushes his lashes against their shirt. They could slip their fingers right into him if they wanted to—if they just make his clothing disappear, if he just spreads his legs a bit more. And he does just that: spread his legs. Wide. The position makes his loosened pucker open and catch at the dry fabric of his underwear. Their fingers rub it into him, deliberately shoving the fabric in deeper. He stifles the quietest whimper, digging his face into their chest as his hands go to grip at their biceps.

The dryness of the fabric stings; hurts. But it’s just an afterthought. It’s like scratching at a scab with enough violence that it _should_ hurt, but instead of pain, all there is is satisfaction, pleasure, more more more. A bleeding mosquito bite he can’t help but claw at. He knows how good it feels, and it can’t be helped that he wants their fingers to slide into him three at a time, stretching him open with a burn and a sting—and it can’t be helped if it hurts; their fingers are so big, after all. Fat, thick fingers with the dexterity of a musician, prying him open, taking him apart. Scratching at his prostate.

 _God,_ “please…” 

It’s less of a word and more of a keen. He wiggles his hips downwards to dig the burn deeper inside of him. He’s not even hard, not yet, not quite. He doesn’t need to be. He’ll be a good, good boy—the best kind of boy—and take the person’s stretching even if it hurts; if it’s too much; if it’s too little. He won’t look at their face. He won’t complain. A second later, he lets out another whine, squeezing his hole to feel the burn of rough cotton. He can practically _feel_ his hole growing irritated; puffy; inflamed. It’s much the same as his mood.

 _“Shh,”_ from above him, disconnected from his scalp, more teasing than upset. The feeling of emptiness above his head—without the person’s nose or smile or breaths gently messing with him—finally registers. It makes him feel devastatingly lonely even though they’re probably just not leaning down enough. It’s not cold, just incomplete. He knows it’s a little stupid, but he can’t... A pitiful noise of sadness burbles past his throat before he can stop it, and almost instantly the person’s hands whip up from his butt to his back, dropping him flat on their lap. Without the support of their hand, the fabric slips free from his hole when he sags. It leaves behind an itchy, burning feeling that’s more pleasurable than irritating.

 _“Shh,”_ it comes again. This time it’s soothing, like a mother shushing her child to sleep. They run their hands up and down his not-quite-warm, not-quite-cold back, pressing him close in something that’s not quite a hug. One hand goes to the back of his head, gently scraping his scalp with its nails. The heat of their palm warms his head as much as it does his cheeks. _Good boy, good boy; easy._

Suzuki lets the words wash over him as he wriggles his way back up to the person’s mouth. Their hand releases enough grip to let him move as he likes. In his endeavor, he accidentally bonks their chin with the top of his head, and he feels the fingers in his hair startle. He’s mortified for a split-second before they hum in mild amusement. Several kisses are pressed to his head, closer now, dissolving the apologies threatening to spew from his mouth in a sweet solvent. _Easy, easy._

He relaxes only slightly. Guilt, and more so embarrassment, makes his muscles stiff and awkward. The person’s fingers settle back into place in his hair, leisurely brushing through strands. He debates over what he should do next, closing his eyes and attempting to make himself comfortable in the crook of their neck. It’s warm there, and their scent is deep. He ignores the restlessness in his limbs— _want to get closer closer closer; please embrace me—_ with the help of his resolve and the limits of his modesty. The position he’s in is only dully painful. His hands clench to their chest, and his own weight crushes his arms as he leans on the person’s body. 

He doesn’t mind, though. 

With a courage that dissipates in mere seconds, he tilts his head in the direction of the person’s ear. He can’t resist giving them something that’s shy of a kiss—just a pucker of his lips—but he hesitates over directly whispering in their ear. It’s not like what he’s going to say warrants _that_ much dedication. Eventually he turns his face back into their shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into their clothing, face flush with warmth. The words are borderline incoherent. The person hums—croons—in response, seemingly understanding regardless. It’s a sound that’s meant to be reassuring, but it makes him shiver with want. His arousal isn’t quite forgotten yet, after all. The person’s fingers pause in his hair, surely noticing the trembling of his thighs. His nails dig into their chest as they turn their head to his ear. 

They’re smirking. He can feel it.

But they don’t say anything—of course they don’t. They usually never speak. Today is just special, maybe. Suzuki purses his lips and tries to ignore the person’s fingers dipping down the back of his collar, ever so close to the mark he _knows_ would glisten in the screen light. His body betrays him by arching his back into their chest, trying to escape the tingling brought about by their fingers. He shudders out a breath when their nails skim the hairs of his nape, just a touch grazing his skin. It’s enough to send a shock of tingles throughout his entire body. Another hum sounds right into his ear. _I see,_ they seem to say, all-knowing and smug. 

Suzuki promptly pulls his face away from the person’s, cheeks flaming and belly hot. He keeps his eyes closed, though. It’s second-nature by now. Their fingers slide from his hair with surprising smoothness, and were he not too busy roiling in embarrassment, he’d be preening over the silkiness of his hair. _They’re teasing too much._ The person chuckles and eases back their nails. They urge him back with a palm that presses, perhaps a bit forcibly, on his nape. He resists the nudging force for a few moments as he sobers up his fraying rationality. _Have to be careful,_ he thinks as he reminds himself of the kids. 

It’s not like he’s going to ignore any clear order, though, so he lets himself be pulled back. He gives them an indignant pout to let them know of his complaints, to which they breathe amusement from their nose. It’s playful and slightly flippant, very much saying: _I know you don’t mean it._ The person’s amusement feeds into his own, giving his pout an upturn of the lips. He’s able to keep up his charade until they pull his head close enough to touch theirs, and a soft exhale of breath—he doesn’t know who it comes from—signals a change in demeanor.

The connection of his and their lips is softer this time. Expected. His nose brushes against theirs as he tilts his head out of pure submission, scooting his body down to let them be above him. A loving, loving purr stutters his heartbeat. Their hand cups the back of his head, pushing him up against their lips, and maybe he drools a little because of it. His fingers have long since been clutched to the fabric of their clothing, but maybe his hold squeezes a bit tighter when they slip the tip of their tongue into his mouth. Maybe a stir of heat makes him mewl in between slight disconnections of lips. 

The kissing is over before he knows it. It feels like the two of them hadn’t even done anything significant, at least compared to what had happened in the bathroom, and yet here he is: panting and breathless, drooling from the mouth, crying a little. A hazy heat simmers in his belly. 

“The game,” he breathes without much thought. His own voice clicks in his head, and he furrows his brows as he thinks. “The game?” 

_The ‘little’ game_

Before he can say anything else, Amano pipes up with:

 _“He’s so fat,”_ and Suzuki jumps at the voice. His eyes almost snap open, but the tears clinging to his lashes acts like a thin glue to keep them shut. “Pandas _that fat in real life only sleep.”_

It takes a second for the words to register. Even with the thin adrenaline pumping through his veins, Suzuki can’t help but smile at the absurdly innocent remark. His earlier thought slips from his mind. The person tells him of their own amusement by rubbing their middle and ring fingers up and down the dip of his nape, slow enough for it to be taken as an innuendo and deliberate enough for him to shiver.

 _“And eat bamboo,”_ Kenneth adds. 

 _“They eat bamboo?”_ Ayako’s voice whips over to Kenneth, causing a spike in adrenaline that makes Suzuki hold his breath. The fingers on his neck don’t even _falter_ in rhythm, and—he’ll never, ever, _ever_ truly admit this aloud—it arouses him to the point that he has to hold back a whine. The fleece of his collar brushes up against the sides of his neck on every downstroke. 

_Please don’t look here_

_“You didn’t know that?”_ Kenneth asks.

_“No…”_

The person, much to his chagrin, preens at his heightened state of arousal. Perhaps just to make him jump; squeak; and dissolve into tremors, they reach down with their middle finger to scrape the bump of his spine, below his nape and up to his scalp with their nail. He reacts as expected, softly gasping at the same time Amano says, _“It’s okay if you didn’t know.”_

The person continues to tease at his skin to make him tremble, and it’s _not fair_ how sensitively he reacts. After a third jolt that makes him arch and whine, he wriggles his left hand free from beneath his chest and grabs their forearm, trying to nudge it away. 

It’s successful, but not in the way that he thinks.

The person gives him one last upstroke of their nail, higher this time so that he ducks his head on reflex. There’s a chuckle and a shift of fabric as he feels their fingers lift off from his scalp. A residue of tingling heat remains on his skin, and he lets himself shake it off alongside his jitters. His grip on their forearm loosens as he wiggles around. He’d intended for his arm to go back to the warm area between his and their chest, but the person seizes his wrist before he can move it back. Fear strikes him still and lax for a fast few milliseconds. 

And then, using his stillness to their advantage, the person drops his wrist only to slot their fingers into the crevices of his. Their palm is warm, as always, and the thickness of their fingers is strikingly obvious against his, though lengthwise they feel relatively equal. Before he can react with any more than a small burst of happiness, though, their other hand rides up from his back to the right side of his jaw. 

Two fingers press into a squishy spot next to the center of his throat, just enough to put uncomfortable pressure on his larynx. _Scoot back._

At the same time, the person gives a squeeze to his hand, brushing a large thumb against his index finger’s knuckle. _Do not let go._

Suzuki obeys without a second thought. A cut-up shushing of fabric tells of his careful wiggling, dragging his skin against the staticky insides of his pants. With the hand held by theirs, he pushes on the person’s palm for extra leverage, arm shaking with the effort but held steady by their grip. Behind him, the movie roars with a cheer. Flashbacks of Po bouncing onto the ground after riding a firework play in his mind. A grin breaks across his face. 

Not really thinking about it, he uses his free hand to steady himself by reaching between his legs. What he doesn’t remember is that he’s sitting on someone’s lap, so rather than leather, his hands meet warm cloth. He freezes as soon as his fingers make contact with the person’s bulge, but what he’d done doesn’t register until a few seconds later. Before the mortification sets in— _again—_ they trail their fingers from his jaw down his arm. They hold his hand there, on top of their crotch, by setting their palm flat on his knuckles. _Stay._

His bubbling words turn to a sizzle in his throat. _Yessir._ Their crotch is heated and warm, but it’s not as—and he flushes when he thinks this— _hard_ as he remembers. It’s only then that he notices how sore his arms are, creaking with every twitch of his muscles as his nerves get the best of him. He rubs his index finger—the one held by their hand—across one of their knuckles for comfort. In response, they caress the top of his other hand, making him curl his fingers into their crotch. Though he releases a breath in embarrassment, he doesn’t bother uncurling his fingers. The lack of laughter relaxes him just a bit. 

Their fingers then dip underneath his palm, nudging him partly away. The digits dig around looking for something he can only assume is their zipper. He feels his own hand tighten its hold on their other hand. His stomach drops a mile down—from nerves, guilt, _shame_ —but it surges back up in a hot muddle of elated arousal. _Finally._ His throat dries at the same time he feels saliva collect on his teeth. When he swallows, it irritates a sudden itch in the back of his mouth. His fingers retreat backwards to give them more room to look, but he keeps them nervously on edge so he doesn’t violate their order. He wonders if they can feel his thigh muscles contract on top of their knees.

The _ziiiip_ is smooth and muted, completely in harmony with the movie. It makes him quiver all the same.

They pull his left hand towards them, leading him forward. He scrambles to lean until they stop pulling and start pushing back. _Right here is good._ He drops his weight down in compliance, trying not to squeeze their thighs with his legs as excitement courses through his veins. _Finally, finally._ Maybe the excitement gets the best of him, though, because his right hand slides forward to tease at the opening of their zipper, eager for entrance. The person chuckles, and the sound is much closer than he’d thought it’d be. He jolts back a touch, but the person pulls him right back by squeezing his left hand. 

He edges his fingers past the zipper, then, first with his index then with his middle. Slipping into the crevice of the zipper feels childishly naughty, like sticking his hand in the cookie jar. The comparison sends a buzz of giddiness through his body.

At the first touch of soft fabric, his heart stutters a fluttery rhythm on the verge of being offbeat. His fingers, on the other hand, are surprisingly brave, moving without input from his brain. It’s _warm._ Maybe his body is just seeking heat on instinct. He’s barely putting enough pressure to feel the mass under their boxers, but its heat travels from his fingers all the way to his cheeks. Their free hand strokes his wrist to encourage him. A tad braver, he rubs at a small spot just under the unzipped part of their pants. Awe, and more so arousal, makes him squeeze his legs tighter around their thighs. He can feel the nubs, a little, just a bit, only really just a bit, maybe. But even if he can’t actually feel it, he can _imagine_ it. That’s all the same to him, isn’t it?

A squeeze to his left hand draws his attention. It’s minute and slight—not a warning, just a signal. In the next second, their hand loosens its hold, flexing their fingers outward. With a soft tinge of sadness, he withdraws his hand from theirs and drops it on his thigh near his crotch. He’d be sadder about not holding hands if he wasn’t preoccupied with feeling out their member. 

 _“I feel kind of bad for him,”_ Ayako says. Suzuki’s fingers freeze, and he almost pulls back from their crotch. A quick scratch to his wrist stops him before he even tries. 

A chorus of _“me too…”_ and _“I know, right?”_ fills the room. Based off what he hears from the movie, he guesses that Po is getting beat up by practice dummies. Remembering it puts a warm niggle of a smile on his face. 

He doesn’t move until after the whispering settles down. Maybe he jumps the gun because the scratch on his wrist reminded him of the marks on his thigh, but that’s not _too_ important. What’s important is the impatience beginning to kick into gear. 

He moves his left hand forward to join his right, snuggling in his fingers with less grace than before. His left hand goes to the left side of the zipper, and his right hand to the right. Maybe he scoots forward a little to help himself reach, but he doesn’t notice. All he notices is the rumbling purr that approves his enthusiasm; the increasingly pulsating heat of their member as he massages it; the plump bumps squishing beneath his fingertips. 

A rush of a thought floods his mouth with saliva. _I want to taste._

“Sir,” he whispers, voice cracking after he’d swallowed his mouth dry. “Can I…”

He trails off, running his nails over the fabric of nubs he’s taken a liking to. A brush of wind warns him of movement. He feels an expected pressure on his nape—their right hand—push his body forwards. He curls his fingers into their member to keep hold, then leans his upper body with the push. There’s a pause in momentum right as he feels breath on his lips, maybe just to warn him of what’s coming, but he doesn’t need it. He presses forward the rest of the way. It’s the second time he’s initiated a kiss.

Suzuki can’t even begin to describe the pride he feels when the person hums into his mouth, sounding infinitely pleased and delighted. A kiss isn’t _exactly_ what he was going for, but he’s happy anyway. A broad lick to his bottom lip has him opening his mouth, and he makes a quiet noise when he feels drool already begin to dribble down his chin. A low chuckle tells him not to fret too much. 

Their tongue occupies itself with teasing at his, encouraging him to play but not quite coaxing him. They seem to understand he’s got his mind on other things. He lets his mouth get played with as he focuses on rubbing at their member, feeling the heat of friction ramp up the heat of arousal. He doesn’t notice he’s letting out soft whimpers until their left hand moves from his hands to his waist, stilling his hips that were grinding on their thighs. _Shh._ Their hand then finds its way underneath his jacket and shirt, and they caress his bare skin. He jolts partly out of ticklishness. The hand keeps its hold, clearly enjoying the rippling of his flesh as he struggles to remain still.

It feels good, but it’s just a taste of what he knows he can get. Having his mouth open like this, having his fingers on the heavy mass of their cock, hearing the wet slips of tongue over the blur of the movie, feeling his member strain in his underwear...it’s all a tease, and the person _knows_ he knows. 

“Please,” he whines in between kisses. “Please, _please...”_

A needlessly calming hum rumbles from the person’s throat to his core. It has the opposite effect of what they’d intended, catching fire to his indignant side. In a surge of protest, his fingers move upwards to hook beneath the band of their boxers. _Off!_ He tugs at the elastic and feels warm skin beneath it, rippling with life. Maybe they actually _intended_ to rile him up. Maybe they wanted to see him react this way. It’s obvious in the way they smirk against his mouth and teasingly rub at his collar. Their tongue laps at his in a show of calm, a strong contrast to his futile attempts to paw their pants off. 

He tries to pull his head back from theirs, mostly as a playful bail. But when he goes for the motion, an immediate growl and a grab to his nape, beneath his collar, seizes him with fear. He’s forced to hold still even after he stops fighting the momentum of their hand. _Too far._ The grip stays strong for an agonizing three seconds. Just before he starts shaking from terror, he feels the grip on his neck loosen, letting his shoulders fall from his ears. Their calluses run across his surely reddened nape, easing the throbbing stretch of muscle. A handprint on his neck would sound nicer if it wasn’t from punishment. 

Low shame builds a coil in his belly. He mumbles an apology into their mouth, properly chastened. As he waits for a reaction, his body shifts in mild discomfort. His crotch finds pleasure with every twitch of muscle. God, leave it up to him to still be aroused after going through a scare. 

He feels an amused huff from the person’s nose on his cupid’s bow, and it relaxes him enough for him to give their lips a tentative lick. It’s returned by a soundless twist of mouth, slipping a tongue past his lips. It bumps into his injury—the puncture wound from earlier—and his tongue flinches at the sudden sensation. Not painful, just unexpected. 

But perhaps it’s a bit scary that the person doesn’t make a sound of approval or pleasure or happiness or reassurance.

He only assumes his apology is accepted once the fingers on his waist begin to dip backwards underneath his pants, gentle and careful. He arches his back at an unexpected scrape of nail, a small _mmf_ escaping his throat. It’s only then that he feels the person’s lips lighten to a smile. The change in mood makes him extra sensitive, then, and he squirms at the dimpling dots of their fingers on his butt. A scratch underneath the neckline of his hair makes him jump and squeak. At that, an amused hum finally breaks their silence, and as their touches get lighter and more frequent, his fingers slowly regain their confidence. 

But it’s not like he can do much more than rub incessantly at their clothes. Frustration builds his arousal from scatters of fear. After all, just the pants being gone would let him do the things he wants to do—the things the _person_ wants him to do. 

He feels his mouth water at the memory of mouthing at hot fabric, warm and musty, damp, moist. The fabric of their boxers is thin enough for him to feel the nubs with his fingers. He wants to see it; desperately, he wants to see it. He knows they’ll let him see it, too, since they did last time. He massages his thumbs into the center of the undone zipper, focusing on a prominent cluster of nubs throbbing under his touch. He imagines it against his tongue, lets it translate his neediness into a messy, whining lick into their mouth. 

_Please? You don’t have to ask me this time_

Suzuki feels their thigh nudge his leg to the side, as if they were trying to spread apart. A sudden bolt of fear rapids through him— _are they leav_ —but it disappears when they press their teeth to his bottom lip. The hand on his neck strokes up to his hair, loving and reassuring. He takes a few hazy moments to reorient himself, then spreads his legs to accommodate the nudging. The person chuckles into his mouth, shaking their head. _No,_ they say, gently amused. Confusion and a niggle of familiar fear takes hold of Suzuki’s face. 

He stays still as the hand on his waist slips from beneath his pants, though his fingers continue to rub at their member. He feels their hand round to his front, wriggling beneath his right thigh palm-up. Still confused but now a little excited, he lifts his weight some to help them get under. A rub to his scalp tells him thank you.

They don’t really need help to lift him up, though, and he lets out a surprised _eek_ when his leg gets manhandled into the air. He ends up breaking the kiss with a _schlip._ Once again, he gets hit with a wave of vibrating arousal at the ease with which he was picked up. He feels himself twitch in his pants, casting a shiver that’s surely felt by their palm. It’s addressed with nothing more than a rub to his inner thigh by their thumb, but it’s enough to make him tense up in excitement. 

Their leg goes beneath his with an inaudible slide of leather. He gets lowered down on top of their thigh, making his balance somewhat lopsided but manageable. Their hand slides from beneath to rest on top, massaging the cloth near his inner thigh with their thumb. He swears he feels the pattern, but it’s too circular this time. In the next second, a change in atmosphere makes his eyebrows furrow. He chalks it up to the change in position making him hypersensitive. 

That is, until his fingers venture further outwards and realize there’s no cold metal of a zipper. Neither is there the rougher fabric of their pants. Nor is there anything blocking their skin from rubbing warmth against his clothed legs. 

All there is is the stretchy, thin cotton fabric of their boxers.

Thrill makes him inhale sharp and quick. 

His fingers, jittery and shaking, run across the span of what he can reach. He starts with their thighs, teasing himself by only brushing against their bare skin. Muscle ripples beneath his feathery touch, and he obsesses over the feeling. He can feel thin, light hairs graze his fingertips—almost the same feeling as macroscopic fibers sticking out from cotton fabric. _So warm._ It’s warm enough for him to remember the feeling of his nails sinking into their flesh, panicked and crying. He remembers desperate clawing and blood beneath his nails as he garbled for them to stop; to at least give him a break; to let him breathe between their cock fucking his throat. Underwear wet with ejaculate. Chin messy with slobber.

He swallows a violent shiver and decides to save that for later.

On each hand, he trails one fingernail up their thighs to meet at their crotch. A ruffle of muscle twitches on his way up, and he feels a chirrup of pride at being able to make them react. Their thighs tense underneath his legs when he rubs his palms on their bulge. Their member is solid beneath the fabric, pulsing and twitching. Eventually, his fingers curl inwards. He feels an extra kick with every scrape of his nails on a nub, and soon he becomes purposefully teasing with his ministrations, relishing the soft hisses the person makes between each round of fondling.

He feels out the outline of their cock, up and down and curving to his left, pushing his fingers into cotton to find what he wants. He hears a sharp falter in the person’s breath when he scrapes a nail across a jutting nub. Their cock jolts beneath his hands and strains at fabric. He ventures and sees that the nub is near the band of elastic. When he scrapes at it again, hard enough for his nail to flick off of it, the fingers in his hair tighten their grip. He swears he feels a low growl brush across his face.

 _Must be the nub below their slit._ He swallows a noise when he remembers the feeling of it dragging down the column of his esophagus. He’s about to scratch at it once more when their fingers, which were pleasantly indulgent until then, draw his focus. They gently scritch at his scalp for his full attention, tugging on a few strands of hair for emphasis.

He stills his fingers. A smidge of worry edges into his conscious—had he gone too far?—and shaves off the first layer of his excitement. The person tutts light and airy as if to comfort him. Their hand leads his head closer to the side of theirs. He lets himself be moved if only to make himself feel better, and it’s not like he dislikes the proximity. Their mouth seems to shift closer to the side of his head, exhaling a breath or two on his ear. A second or three passes in pure silence. The heat beneath his hands is hot enough to feel wet.

Then, and in a low, rough voice, one syllable passes through the air. It rumbles into his ear as a purr and blankets his mind in a thick drape of velvet.

_“Game.”_

And the person emphasizes the ending with a long, drawn-out hum. It takes a stretched moment for him to process the word. 

_Game ?_

The drape is yanked off by the force of his sudden realization. His eyes snap open in shock, seeing nothing but a haze of white and blue. Just as quickly, he squeezes them shut again. Crust digs into the corners of his eyes. He hopes he won’t be reprimanded for his slip-up—a reassuring nail to his scalp eases that thought—and he hopes he hadn’t heard wrong—a rub to his thigh tells him he hadn’t—and he _really_ hopes he’ll get to suck them off—a huff of breath tells him maybe—and; 

His thoughts bounce about his head in a flurry of echoing excitement: 

 _They spoke again! Said the word_ game..? _Little game. Sounded so nice; love their voice. So warm. Love this love this—_

And, stemming from the flash of white still burning beneath his eyelids, another memory pops into his head to join the chaos: 

_White. White hair? They have white hair? Couldn’t see well, but it was white._

He remembers it for sure. Their skin had been white too. He remembers their thighs; remembers their paleness glowing in his phone light after school. Same shade, same color. He obsesses over it.

_But their…was lavender, right?_

Suzuki swallows the ring of arousal that comes from remembering—and, at this point, imagining—the person’s penis. God, he’s never wanted to wrap his mouth around something so much before. Never wanted something thick and heavy on his tongue. He wants to open his mouth wide and hear his jaw pop. He almost does it right then and there to remember what it feels like, but he reminds himself that the person is in front of him. He tamps down his urge with a less than subtle squeeze of his thighs. His knees itch to slide downwards and onto the floor, but the hand on his right leg holds him still. It taps its fingers, reminding him of what had just been spoken. 

The _game._ The reminder ignites a spark of giddiness. He’d completely forgotten about it. A blush mixed with excitement, embarrassment, and childish curiosity burns his cheeks. He’d been too busy fondling them to even remember anything about it. His fingers curl into their crotch again, feeling out the bumps of flesh on auto-pilot. They’re letting him touch them like this; letting him get a taste—he wishes it was a _literal_ taste, but this is better than nothing—so that means whatever the game involves is something with their—

An abrupt, white-hot bolt of arousal rips through his gut, shocking him into a ramrod jolt of gritted-teeth tension. It buzzes up and down his nape, and something that’s close to a whined yelp forces its way past his lips. It’s gone the next second, and he falls limp and shivering. His body splays itself onto theirs, nose in their shoulder and hands awkwardly bent on their thighs.

_What—_

Another chuckle, this time pressed into his hair. The guilty finger slides away from his nape. _Electricity._ Suzuki feels himself sag at the realization, slightly miffed—he’s pouting—at the clear teasing. Their hand rounds back to cup his entire neck, eliciting a niggle of instinctual fear. It’s overpowered by the comfort of warmth. A thumb hooks beneath the junction of his neck and jawline, massaging in what seems to be the pattern as an “apology” for the tease. Then, it nudges him back. _Scoot._ Immediately forgoing his poutiness, he straightens until he’s back at his original position: sitting straight-up on the bottom half of their thighs. 

More patterns are traced onto his thigh and neck at his obedience. The shock had blanked his mind, so it takes a long time for him to process anything past the comfort of the steady tracing. _Good boy,_ it tells him. Over and over and over. 

“The game,” he murmurs after the nth pattern tracing. The finger on his thigh pauses. He wiggles a little until it resumes, ignoring the person’s amused _hmph._ Without his fingers on their cock and with the soothing patterns on his thigh, his mind is easier focused on speech. He swallows to clear the strain of scratchiness, but his voice still stutters over a transition. There’s still an itch in his throat, after all. “What is the gh-game?”

And as he asks, a small part of him hopes that they’ll be cruel. It’s clear the game will be sexual—he’s at least 95% sure it is. The only thing he can do is pray and fantasize. He hopes they’ll strip him clean of his clothes and cover him in love bites and tear streaks and ejaculate stains. He hopes they’ll make him keep his mouth shut; muffle his whimpering as they hold him on top of their cock and rock up into him. 

He hopes they’ll make a loving game out of it; hopes they’ll make fun of him for sobbing into their hand and scratching at their wrists to get them to stop. He hopes they’ll continue to grind their ribbed cock against his prostate when the kids turn to him; make him jumble out babbled gibberish in response to whatever Kenneth may ask. He hopes they’ll croon in his ear as the recliner creaks beneath them, mocking him for leaking all kinds of fluid into the crevices of its expensive leather. 

A small part of him _wants_ to be made a fool— _wants_ their voice in his ear, counting and counting his orgasms, 5-10-15; weighing it to their own number in a sick, self-serving game. He _wants_ the tone of their voice to humiliate him. He _wants_ to come to his own conclusions; _wants_ to feel as defiled and troubled as when he’d gotten fucked senseless near his parents. 

It messes up his gut in a glob of clotted shame and molten arousal. The heat of his crotch burns as bright as the heat on his cheeks; as bright as the burn of the tears beneath his eyelids.

He doesn’t like this, but maybe he does. 

A low hum draws him out of his head to notice a push behind his neck. He follows it with helpless obedience. A quiet noise of something between sadness and gratitude slips out when his lips meet theirs. It’s a chaste kiss, barely a press. Even so, it clears the way for them to guide one of his wrists back to their crotch. A hand is kept to his neck as a command to stay. 

He rests his palm on their throbbing heat, hesitant, but he becomes more confident when the pattern is brushed to the top of his knuckles. He moves his other hand to join, then, and finds his own comfort in the wet heat. The fingers cupping his neck brush lovingly against the skin beneath his jacket collar. 

The unspoken _good boy_ fills him with quiet elation, curling his fingers inward to his palm. He likes this more than anything else. _Good boy._ Spoken or not—he loves it. He feels a smile brush up against his mouth, barely touching him after the kiss they’d shared. It’s so slight that he’s sure he’s imagined it, and before he can think too hard:

Something broad taps his right thigh. It’s an abnormally familiar sensation, but he can’t put his finger on it. When it whacks him again with all its rectangular plastic glory, though, a whip of deja vu tells him it’s his _phone!_ A crash of revelation—where on Earth has his phone been this entire time, and why on Earth does the person have it?—stuns him into motion. He slowly pulls his face back until the hand on his neck gives a warning squeeze. _No farther,_ and he doesn’t fight the order. 

He knows he had his phone with him when he sat down—right?—but he’d never felt the person take it out of his pocket. Unless it just slipped out? But he would’ve felt it if that—

Another whack, this time accompanied by their thumb nudging his chin to his right. _Look down._

So he rolls his neck to his chin and towards his thigh. His eyes peek open just a slit. The light behind him blurs his vision, and even more so the fear of glimpsing their face makes him hesitant to see anything more. His phone looks up at him in a characteristic black shining blue. Then, a flash of white makes him flinch his eyes closed. It’s alongside a hint of green. 

Green?

Another tap to his thigh tells him to look again, so he does. Curiosity eases the stinging of his eyes. _Must be about the game._ He’s less careful about how wide he opens his eyes now—too excited to care. The way the screen light hits the person makes it difficult to see them in his peripherals anyway. That’s what he hopes, at least. 

Once his eyes adjust, the first thing he notices is the green _Start_ button. It’s an instant recognition in his head, faster than the couple of blinks he does to further clear his vision. He uses it all the time after all. The timer, that is. 

They’re setting a _timer_ on his phone? It could be the stopwatch function just based off the green _Start,_ but there’s no white dot in the middle, so he rules it out. 

The second thing he notices is the 19 seconds they set. It doesn’t make sense—why such an odd number?—until he looks at the minutes to the left of it: 20. He feels himself huff a laugh at their joke. _2019._ A playful scrape to the back of his head tells him they appreciate his laughter.

His eyes flicker back and forth between the person’s hand—pale, so very pale and _large_ that he memorizes it as best as he can—and the numbers on the screen. As an afterthought, his eyes glance up to the time on the top edge of his phone. It’s in a smaller font than everything else, so he has to squint, but he’s sure it says **19:50.**

He watches the person’s thumb press the middle of the screen. To his shock, a notification pops up beneath their finger, stinging his eyes with its muted light. More blinks clear out his momentary blindness. He can make out the words of the bubble, but their thumb covers the option beneath it—greyed out. He can only assume that it has the word “OK” in the middle. _Must have selected before it even popped up._

A chirp of fondness in his heart makes him smile. Guess it’s an inside joke now.

It takes a second for his white-burnt eyes to adjust enough to read, and the person waits with a loving kind of silence. The moment his eyes focus, and the moment he reads the words digitized on his phone, a bolt cold enough to excite his body with dreadful arousal shoots through every one of his nerves:

Your orgasm is your loss. 20:19.

A new dialog box may appear.

The immediate tensing of his muscles must have alerted the person of his understanding. They lift their finger from the screen not a second later, and a new box pops up. This time, the OK option isn’t greyed out. Their finger rests on the edge of his case instead. His mind scrambles to make sense of the two single words on the screen, bouncing around in a spaz of scenarios— _my orgasm is my loss? Meaning don’t come...?—but for 20:19—twenty minutes and I can’t...or I lose...are they...will they—_ a distinct feeling of fearful excitement seeps into his gut— _oh no—_

Until finally, and after a sweet, teasing scrape to his neck, the words settle firm in his mind, flooding his gut with heat:

Understand? 

OK

“Yessir!” Suzuki breathes with the last sips of breath in his lungs. It comes out high and choked, as if swallowed beforehand. It takes him a second to realize what he’s done. A dull kind of fear builds from his thoughtless agreement—he doesn’t even know what’ll happen if he loses—but the unknown only exacerbates his arousal. 

At his agreement, the person hovers their thumb to the OK button, practically radiating well-pleasedness. They rub over and over at his neck, dangerously close to his hickey—the thought of it shoots giddiness through him—and increasingly firm. They can probably _feel_ him buzzing with excitement, thoughts leaking out of his mind and into full view. He doesn’t know when his fingers had started to rub at their member again, but once he focuses on them, it’s all he can think about. Hard, plump nubs that he can practically smell; can practically feel dragging on his tongue. His head runs down and down, milking any and every thought of what could happen to him at appropriate speed. 

This game of endurance—it’s a game they’ll try to win, but it’s also a game they won’t _have_ to try to win. He knows his orgasm will come easy, and so do they. A distinct feeling of helplessness claws at his morals and excites him further. They could do so much to him. So, _so_ much to him. 

But they could also do so little and still make him cry into orgasm. His eyes squeeze shut at the thought. A couple of pokes; a handful of rubs; maybe a few scratches...all to his prostate and maybe his slit, and he’d be gone, biting at their clothing to muffle his noises as his hips jerk away from the fingers still going at it inside of him. He’d have to be quiet; _extra_ quiet because the kids aren’t too focused on the movie when it’s not at its peak of action. The room would be quiet enough for the squish of lube to be audible and the splurt of his ejaculate _almost_ audible. The creaking of leather as he desperately fights the arms holding pressure to his prostate would be loud and jarring, and he—

He doesn’t know if he can win this when he’s already so desperate. His tip is leaking tiny bullets of wetness into his underwear, eating up the sensation of their pulsing member beneath his fingers. Twenty minutes—he knows the nineteen seconds only serves as a tease—of...of anything and everything. He doesn’t know what’s coming to him. Would they play it strong at the get-go? Pull him taut by his nerves and slip three fingers into his quivering hole? He almost begs them _please_ before he remembers the game. The chain reaction has already started, though, linking scenario after scenario with sensations he can’t help but chase after. 

And it registers, then, that they could let him ruin himself. They know as well as he does that he doesn’t have an ounce of self-control. They could slip their fingers into him, make it a snug and comfy fit even when he tries to flinch away, then stay there without moving. Not a pull outwards, not a wiggle inwards. Just there inside of him. Comfortable. Not at all waiting. Poised above his sweet spot.

He knows it would feel good. He _likes_ the feeling of being full; being stretched. But he also knows it wouldn’t take long for him to become unsatisfied, especially when he knows how good it feels to be run down by their fingers. 

So he’d move, then. He’d ride their fingers by leaning forwards, just as he’d done during the earlier movies. It’s a strike to his gut, but he tries to tamp it down with a tamer scenario. He’d ride them slowly at first, huffing and puffing at the stretch of his rim around their girthy fingers. They’d keep their fingers nice and still for him as he moves, and maybe they’d even spread their digits a millimeter apart to remind him of the burn. It’s something they would do: subtle and ridiculously unfair. Maybe they’d curl just a touch downwards, unnoticeable if it didn’t cause their fingers to brush against his swollen prostate. The prostate _they’d_ made swollen and _continued_ to make swollen even when he was begging in their ear for them to stop.

He digs his nails into their cock, clogging his nails with heated fabric. His hole clenches at the twitch felt by his fingers. He hears the person let out a hiss at the same time a nail scratches the back of his head. Out of male empathy, he eases his fingers a bit but otherwise keeps his hold, too busy swimming in his head. 

_They wouldn’t stop this time either, would they?_

His own cock twitches against his belly. His shiver is surely felt by them even with the layers of fabric between his and their skin. He can even feel their confirming smirk through the dark, but he pays it nothing but a blush on his cheeks. They’ll tease him like that through the game, maybe. They’ll bring him to the edge with a twiddle of their fingers, then stop right before fluid starts riding up his urethra. They’ll smirk at him and croon smug little noises into his ear as his hips try and coax their fingers back. _You want to come? Really? Really? But you’ll lose if you come, no?_

And even after he comes, they won’t stop. They’ll continue to murmur into his ear: noises that aren’t exactly words, asking him why he’s begging for them to stop now when _he’s_ the one who wanted them to keep going. They’d be all loving and sweet too because that’s—well, it’s just who they are, maybe...

And maybe, just maybe, if he manages to hold on for the entire twenty minutes—can’t forget those nineteen seconds either—then they’ll give him a reward. He doesn’t know what the reward would be, nor does he think he’s going to win, but…

The turn of thoughts humbles Suzuki’s arousal. He shifts, somewhat uncomfortable, and finally eases his nails from their crotch. He feels the person sag into the recliner, and a pang of cringe has him murmuring a saliva-bubbled apology. He’s too attached to their cock to completely slide away, though, so he hopes for the best when he rubs out the crescents his nails had made in the fabric. Their hand slides from his neck to his left arm, resting on the bend of his elbow. It draws their pattern once to reassure him—it does a good job—before becoming comfortably still. 

It occurs to him, then, that he’d never seen the person actually press the OK button. A chuckle tells him that he’s not the only one who’s noticed, and so does a whack to his right thigh. He bites his lip as his blush turns to embarrassment. _I’m sorry._ He almost apologizes aloud before another pattern on his left arm eases him. Their finger nudges the inside of his elbow downwards.

Sheepishly, he pulls away enough to properly turn his head back down to his thigh. He hadn’t even noticed when his position shifted. Weary of how bright the light must be, he peeks his eyes open to see the white dialog box on his phone gone. 

Instead, the timer beams up at him in its skinny number glory, stuck at 20:19 until the Start button is pressed. 

“...”

And maybe the moist parts of his crotch make him anxious. Maybe being perched on their lap with his hands on their cock and the promise of being ruined makes him a little braver, a little more reckless.

He slips his right hand away from their crotch, keeping his fingers connected as long as possible before lifting off. He tries to encapsulate the feeling of their nubs rippling with elasticity beneath his running touch. Another shift of discomfort is accompanied by a shaky inhale, and the person rubs lovingly and knowingly at his arm. He hovers his fingers above his phone, watching light blur around his nails. His ring finger in particular quivers above the Start, and something more than gravity beckons it down. 

But he waits. He doesn’t know if this is out of line. The longer the seconds pass in silence, the more nervous— _impatient—_ he becomes. The itch in his throat begins to re-intensify, but he keeps it at bay with a swallow of thick saliva. Should he ask? Out loud? But how come they didn’t press it themselves? Maybe there’s something planned, and he has to wait. But he can’t wait that long or else—

His thoughts are interrupted when their left hand suddenly snakes into view and taps the top of his hovering knuckle. Several things happen at once. His ring finger goes down, and trauma springs it back up. The green is gone, replaced with a _Pause_ whose only letter he can see is P. The timer morphs to begin its countdown with the peril of a bomb. 

Suzuki pulls his hand back and stares at the counting seconds in mild shock. 

18, 17, 16, 15...

He only reacts when their hand flips itself under his. They lift up and cup his palm with theirs, like holding hands with mittens on. His eyes blink and focus on his hand in theirs: a perfect fit. He marvels at how pale they are. They seem to be the same lightness as him, but their undertone is more blue-ish compared to his sickly yellow. He looks fragile when in the cusp of their rough, veined—blue veins too? Or is it just the lighting?—hand, but it’s to be expected when the most labor he does is carry his backpack to school. The thought seems to amuse the person, and they squeeze his hand lightly. 

Suzuki closes his unwittingly parted mouth and can’t help a shy little smile, giving them a squeeze back. It just barely closes the gap between his and their fingers. 

_Good_

He’s just about to bring his left hand to join the hand-holding fest when he feels his fingers slip between a crevice of nubs. In an instant, he’s reminded of what happened— _the game started—_ and his mind runs off with new stimuli. His hole clenches at the same time his hand tightens its grip on theirs; on _their_ hand whose fingers have been _inside_ of him, thick and inhuman and calloused and pale. Pressing into him, spreading him. A half-hearted chuckle has him squeezing his eyes shut. He turns back to their face, whining. Then, he scoots forward, not enough to change his position but enough to drag his penis against his still-wet underwear. 

He makes another half-distressed, half-pleasured noise to their face. It’s met with another chuckle, and this time they uncup his hand to round his wrist. The palm of his hand is cold until it’s guided back to their waiting bulge, and he pets at it like a strange type of cat. Somehow it reminds him of how they’d scratched the underside of his chin in the bathroom, and a kick in his heart makes him want to hide away and blush.

But the hand on his left arm keeps him held. With the objective of the game in the forefront of his mind, Suzuki forces himself to settle and focus. Well, as much as he can focus with the person’s cock thrumming beneath his hands anyway. 

He wants to take off their boxers: peel the fabric back and have the heat waft up to his face; let his mouth clean away the residue of cotton restraint. His mouth waters. _Would taste so good._ Savory, meaty, rich. Just like the curry, but dirtier. Not in essence but in spirit too. Something that’ll plague his mouth for weeks after.

He wishes he still remembers it exactly.

But he knows that extra stimulation would be too much for him. Twenty minutes—he can do this! It’s just twenty minutes.

Right?

A loving rub to his arm confirms that _yes, it’s just twenty minutes._ Somehow, though, it’s a little confident...a little too comfortable...but he tries not to pay it much mind. Maybe he’s just imagining things.

At the moment, the person doesn’t seem to be in a rush to touch him anyway. They’re comfortable; lax. If anything, they could be watching the movie just like the kids. They _are_ facing the screen, after all. The prospect makes him pout. He rubs at where he knows their tip is to get their attention back, using his dominant hand for extra control. He feels their thigh muscles tense, and if he’s being honest, his own do too. He can’t help it when his index finger comes off the cloth _wet._ The room cools the moisture on his finger. 

It’s pre-cum. Behind him, he hears the kids giggle at something Shifu says.

Suzuki goes right back to digging his index and middle into their glans, obsessively awestruck at how he can feel his nails catch into their slit. He wonders if it feels good; if he’s doing good. Their body is tenser now, reacting to his touches. The hand on his left arm is lightly curled, and he feels a shift to his right. A thud is accompanied by their hand rubbing on his thigh. Their fingers trace patterns into his sweatpants, not deliberate enough to strip him but enough to make his heart swell with pride. As an afterthought, he tells himself that the phone must be on the armrest. _Have to check there later._  

Just because he can, Suzuki brings his moistened fingers to his mouth and peeks his tongue out. He hears and feels a shaky exhale from in front of him. The person is _watching_ him. Rather than embarrassment, it gives him courage. He quite shamelessly licks in both of his fingers. Instead of purposely coating them with saliva, he licks around to capture every last taste of saltiness from their proxy cock. It’s the closest he’s going to get for now, and it does its job in fulfilling its role. 

He thinks he hears the person breathe in and hold their breath, but the taste on his tongue sizzles every last one of his nerves before he can process it. _Tastes so good._ His left hand continues to rub at their tip, playing with the prominent nub he’d found earlier. Scratching at it seems to garner more reaction, so he continues to flick it with his thumb nail as his index rubs across their meatus. If he focuses hard enough, he can feel the drops of pre-cum seeping into the fabric with every flick. It only reminds him of his own neglected member drooling into his pants. 

He switches his hands and whines at the renewed taste in his mouth. Vaguely, really truly just at the back of his mind, he roils in how desperate he must look. But he doesn’t care—the person _likes_ it; encourages it with patterns on his thigh that falter with each kick of sensation on their cock. He gauges the size of the nub beneath his thumb, easier now because his right hand is back to doing the work. About a centimeter wide. Less squishy than the rest. Harder. His own voice repeats back to him. _Like a nipple,_ but this one’s more erect.

A right-down crackle in his throat reminds him of how the same nub—the same one beneath his fingers—had been down his throat once. It’d been down his throat _in school_ while women were outside the door laughing. It had been inside of him, mushing his prostate while he cried into his sheets next to his parents. It had made his underwear soaked with semen and his shirt with tears and slobber; his bedsheets with both. The memories ramp up both his rubbing and his sensitivity, and he flinches when a shift catches his penis in a grind. _Squish._ The flinch only causes another. _Squishsquish._ He whimpers at the helpless chain, fingers faltering in rhythm; and a low, low, _delighted_ chuckle from the person only makes it worse. 

He diverts his attention away from the nub for his own sake. He has a game to win. No good in digging his own grave. His own penis is still leaking in the confines of his underwear, though the drip is slower than before. Or maybe his underwear is so wet that he can’t even tell anymore. 

He rubs downwards to their scrotum, massaging the heel of his palm into the nubs. The person purrs at the motion, and he can’t help the proud bite of his lips as he hides a smile. Eventually he makes it to where he wants, and the fabric there is tighter wound. He cups his fingers beneath a round sac and feels out the weight. He marvels at how heavy it is. It feels like a pound of weighted beef. The comparison makes him pause to scrunch his face and laugh, but he thinks it’s accurate. A huff comes from the person in agreement.

He massages his right thumb across its corresponding testicle, pleased with its texture. It’s smooth and velvety through the cotton, albeit a little squishy. It’s almost like an oversized nub. He runs his left hand up their shaft with his fingertips as his right hand continues massaging, weighing out the difference. His longer nails catch beneath the crevices of each nub on its way up. He feels the person sigh and shift beneath him, and a harder kneading to his thigh tells him it’s a positive reaction. So he continues that, then: running his fingertips up and down their shaft as his other hand plays with one of their balls.

He can only wonder what it’d feel like in his mouth. The furthest thing he remembers is the feeling of them on his chin as he got his mouth violated at school, but even then they weren’t _this_ heavy. A small wiggle of hope builds in him. _Maybe they didn’t release with someone else after all._

Suzuki squeezes his legs together as best as he can. His hips twist by themselves to pleasure himself. He _wants_ to stick his hand down his pants and touch his cock directly, but he knows he won’t last. It’s better to keep his hands busy pleasuring the person than to ruin himself like he’d...like he’d done during the marathon. His thighs squeeze tighter at the thought, and the person inches their right thumb closer to his crotch. It felt so good, his nails in his slit. He tries to stop thinking about it.

But it doesn’t work when the wet fabric of his underwear folds and molds into his urethra. 

Even when he tries to stop gyrating his hips, he can’t. He makes a meek, helpless noise to the person, somewhat of a plea for help, but they only encourage him with a soft rub to his inner thigh. He wonders if the widening of his slit contributes to the pleasure he’s feeling; if the width makes it easier for liquid to ooze out and—the thoughts send a blow to his gut. Memories and sensations flood his body with stimulation. The sight of semi-solid semen sticking to his tip, the _slishslishslish_ noise his nails made in his slit, the view of his widened urethra—

He shudders out a shaky whimper, feeling a rather large dollop of pre-cum leak from his opening to soak. He chases after the rush by rutting into the air, chafing his tip against his underwear and wetting the fabric further. It’s good, almost painful, but it’s _not enough,_ so it’s okay. He keeps from whining in frustration. It’s good if it’s not enough—he still has a long time to go before it’s over. He doesn’t even have the care to peek down to see how much time is left. His hands work on their member only as a supplement to what he’s feeling. He lets it wash over him: the nubs, the girth, the color he remembers, the heaviness of their ballsack. 

Maybe if he’s lucky, they’ll fuck into him tonight. Grind into his prostate and have their scrotum press up against his buttocks; pound him into the guest mattress as he screeches into the blankets. Maybe he’ll bruise from the force, maybe he’ll pass out an hour before they empty their dense load into his hole. Maybe they’ll fuck him while he’s out. Maybe he’ll wake up to finger himself and feel the ruins of his abused prostate. 

 _Oh no,_ he says in a whine. His hips move desperately for any source of friction, but he keeps his hands away from himself. _Have to stay careful._ He repeats that to himself over and over as his cock becomes increasingly twitchy.

The person, seemingly taking pity on him, offers the heel of their left hand to grind on, wedging it horizontal between his thighs. They press it hard up against his shaft, dragging the fabric of his pants upwards and scrunching it at his belly. It gives him a delicious friction as he grinds down, crushing his tip against his underwear and smearing damp cloth all over his skin.

_“Hngkh!”_

The pleasure is sharp and abrupt. Stars flutter his eyelids, and he accidentally scratches at their cock, eliciting another hiss from their lips. His hips falter when he first feels it, toes curling at the painful intensity—he almost thinks he’s going to orgasm, and the strike of terror escalates the pleasure further—but he quickly comes back at an erratic pace. 

The person croons—almost a little surprised—as he desperately grinds down onto their hand, humming over his choked noises of pleasure. _Feel good?_ they seem to ask. A pitiful mewl slips past his lips as a substitute for _yessir,_ deathly quiet under the movie _._ He makes up for it by nodding his head up and down in unrestrained enthusiasm. He’s moving enough to hear the rhythmic, scratchy swish of his pants, and it only serves to rile him up further. 

 _“She’s amazing!”_ Ayako says, stars flying about in her tone. His hips stutter in quick fear, but he doesn’t stop this time. Not this time. It feels _good,_ too good, and he’s still clothed so it’s not like he’s exposed; he knows he can play this off, whatever this is; he can orgasm, it’s fine—wait he can’t! He can’t orgasm—have to win—but it’s fine it’s fine it’s fine he can hide it if the kids turn to him—

 _“I know!”_ Kenneth says, sounding equally awed. _“But I like Shifu the most.”_

A hot, burning pressure begins to build in his stomach, familiar enough for him to chase after it but not enough for him to recognize. It feels like something he can build forever and ever, so he does. He claws at the person’s crotch until he feels his fingers catch beneath their waistband, and he tugs it down enough to feel something pop free. 

His hands scrabble for whatever it is that’d popped out, and his breath escapes him in a rush. The smooth, velvety texture of the tip of their cock is a strike to his gut. Wet and a little slippery. It worsens his panting; worsens the pleasure of his squished little penis; worsens the itch in his throat. Their left hand grinds harder into his crotch, and he _almost_ keens out loud. He’s able to stifle himself by swallowing a bubble of noise and squeezing his legs tight, suffocating their wrist between his thighs.

 _“The raccoon?”_ Ayako asks.

 _“I think he’s a_ red panda.”

Vaguely, he realizes that he’ll have a better time moving if he slides his hands to their shoulders for leverage, but the feeling of their glans pulsating between his fingers trumps anything else. His own imagination runs off with the sensation—in his mouth, cumming cumming and flooding his throat, tongue bleeding, tasting copper; licking the little nub and feeling their nails scratch at his scalp, playing with it, having it dig into his throat’s sweet spot;—

 _“Really?”_ Amano asks. _“That exists?”_

A keen of a whine makes it past his lips. He scoots his knees forward to ease his position, urging the heel of their hand harder into his tip. He wonders if his pre-cum has soaked past his underwear and into his sweatpants. He wonders if the person can feel it, if the kids would be able to see a wet patch if he were to turn around. His thighs tense tighter at the thought, and he tunes into the kids’ conversation to make sure.

 _“But Shifu isn’t_ panda…” Keith says, confused. 

He’s close enough to rub at their slit’s nub with his thumbs. Using both his nails and the pads of his fingers, he fiddles with it in the same energy they’d used to play with his slit—in the same energy _he’d_ used to play with his slit. 

 _“I know, but he’s still called a_ red panda. _Weird, right?”_

The elasticity of the nub, the hardness of it, the size... He imagines it slipping past his lips and into his mouth, having their pre-cum drip down his tongue and into his throat. He imagines having it rub against his sweet spot, having it grind and grind him down into the mattress as he sobs for mercy. His rutting turns into quick, quick rubbing, kneading their hand into his tip. It shouldn’t be enough to come—he’s not going to orgasm without direct contact, he knows. But the movement squeezes pre-cum out of his slit, and his pants are definitely wet now, wet enough for him to hear it—maybe. He can hear _their_ cock for sure, though. Can hear how the pre-cum collecting beneath his nails slides around in a slithery, squishy tangent.

The pressure in his stomach builds up to a point he’s nearly nauseous. 

He runs his fingers down from the exposed tip to the rest of the shaft, measuring the length. Awe strikes his head dizzy when he realizes how big they are. He took their entire cock inside of him—was able to stay quiet all the while orgasms wrecked him senseless. He took them in his mouth, too, and brought them to orgasm. The thought sends a euphoric rush through his body. He was a good boy and brought them to orgasm! And this time, if he wins, maybe he can—

A purposeful grind nearly sends him doubling over in its suddenness, and he feels his cock squirt out something that’s exponentially hyperactive in its sensation—too much pleasure—dangerous—but he keeps his hips moving regardless. Feels too good to  stop. His fingers ride back up to their tip, rubbing at their slit and its nub. They’re pulsating for real now. It’s wet, wet, wet. Not quite as wet as him—the person huffs a laugh that sounds like _yeah—_ but wet enough for the fluid to collect on his fingers. 

He takes it to his mouth immediately. Both hands. He sticks them in and sucks, licks, slavers. The pure, _raw_  salty taste sends him into a frenzy, and though his balance is compromised, he keeps his rhythm going, squishing his abused glans with their hand. 

“Please”—Suzuki isn’t sure what he’s begging for—“please, Sir, please please;” 

His hands go down from his mouth, leaving a trail of drool to dribble down his chin. He’s about to go back to rubbing at their member when the person grinds their hand **_hard_** and upwards in response to his plea, perfectly in time with his own grind downwards. It completely squashes his tip as flat as it can go. His slit _must_ have turned into a thin line with the pressure. 

His hands shock upwards, and he hears a chuckle as he doubles over in a broken gasp, eyes flying open but unseeing anything but stars. His back hunches over; hands scrabble for hold on their shoulders.They don’t seem to realize what they’ve done.

The high tower of pleasure he’d built comes crashing down in a mess of spazzing sensation. A mess of unadulterated terror and unwanted rapture. He silences himself before the gasp becomes a choked cry, mouth hanging open and letting out silent _ah—aa—uu—_ noises as his cock streamlines liquid from his forcibly narrowed slit. It sputters at random until it steadies, and his muscles seem to contract to force it out. His body kicks and shudders against their hand, thighs trembling with tension as he feels the liquid seep past his over soaked underwear. Thin and watery fluid runs a burning trail to his feet, and his toes curl until they hurt. He feels tears well over his eyelids and down his cheeks, blurring the vision of his semi-rolled-back eyes further. 

His member throbs painfully even after the stream stops. He snivels in the aftermath, half ecstasized and half horrified. Droplets of fluid find their way out from beneath his cuffed ankles and into exposed air, rapidly cooling. It tickles more than it should; draws more attention than it should. He wishes he’d worn socks to escape the feeling. He’s sure the person can feel him try to twitch through his pants beneath their crushing pressure, and every half-sip of breath seems to dig stimuli into his urethra. 

The person seems to have realized what had happened halfway through. They hold their grip still to let him ride it out. They go so far as to offer another grind, albeit not as hard, a few moments after he’d had time to rest. He gives another kick of movement in reaction, another _!_ in response, but the next second sees him falling completely atop their hand. 

The words _oh no_ boil over his head.

Suzuki tries not to cry anymore than he has; tries not to smell anymore than he has to. The scent isn’t pungent, but it’s _there,_ and it’ll only get worse. It eats at his snapped rationality in the form of uncontrollable twitching and shaking. It’d been an orgasm alright, but this time is different. He can smell it.

He’d pissed himself. Just straight up pissed himself.

Shame coils the sick pleasure in his stomach. Not only that, but he’d orgasmed in his incontinence. Prematurely. Had he even lasted ten minutes? Five? He tries to let everything pass him by, he really does, because what good is someone who not only pees himself like a child but cries like one too? And maybe it’s not _that_ bad because he’s gotten this dirty before...gotten this ruined before...but he hasn’t. Not like this.

The pressure stays riveted with every shift of fabric on his rubbed-out tip against their hand. A spike of pain—strong enough for his body to mistake it as pleasure, of all things—makes his muscles ache in protest. Makes him hate the feeling. But it’s not like he can run. Not like he _wants_ to run. In his fall, he’d ended up with his head on their shoulder, back stretched and arched obscenely with his ass pointing out. He’s held up steady by their hand like a girl holding her chihuahua, and his body shakes in accordance with the dog’s idiosyncrasy.

He needs to do something. Anything just to...because it can’t be helped that he’d peed himself. It be like that sometimes, right? It’s his loss. Suzuki rolls his neck to face their ear, ignoring the vein of hurt. His nails dig violently into their shoulders for stability. It’s a last resort hope to lessen the impact of what he’s done. But deep down, he knows he can’t do anything but own up to what happened. This is the least he can do. 

So he tries not to cry. He just tries not to cry.

But even _he_ knows he can’t do much more than pray that this isn’t what causes them to leave. He’d relieved— _pissed—_ himself on their hand... _pissed_ himself _on their hand!_

“...muh…hn...” Suzuki sucks in a tattered breath, voice frayed. Mind frayed. He tries to ignore the apprehension building vomit in his throat. “‘s-s...mm-my loss…s…”

 _‘I’m so sorry.’_ He can’t even bring himself to say those words. He’s no good. Good-for-nothing.

He very nearly breaks in half when the person slips their hand away from his crotch. The only thing that stops him is the last bit of his dignity screeching at him to shut up. He can feel residue stick onto their palm as they go, and it only makes the lead in his stomach roll. Too sticky to be anything but urine. Not even a trace of seminal fluid like before.

The fabric of his sweatpants and underwear weighs down heavy with failure. His body fights to keep position, afraid of letting go. Any heavier and he’s terrified he might snap. He shuts his eyes and tries to relax, taking in deep and shuddering breaths. It’s more like he’s hyperventilating. If he buries his nose into their shoulder, he can’t smell any of his shame. It’s better that way even if he’s not getting enough oxygen. Better to spend his last few moments with them trying to memorize their scent.

He flinches when he feels a hand just barely touch the back of his head. He runs from it; moves to bury his face deeper into the crevice of their neck. _Please don’t._ It’ll push him away, he knows. Or maybe it’ll yank him away by his hair. Who wouldn’t? He fucking peed on their hand. Like an untrained dog. Phrasing it like that makes him want to laugh, but it feels like any voluntary sound he tries will come out as vomit. Or maybe it’ll come out as urine. Suzuki grits his chattering teeth, trying to quiet the pitiful noises threatening to slip out with his tears.

“—h…” 

And their fingers gently, ever so tenderly, thread through his hair. They soothe his scalp with slow circles; round patterns, mussing his hair with spun tangles. _Easy, easy._ A rushed exhale leaves him alongside a few more tears. It takes a second for him to gain enough will to bask in the attention. He feels a hand dip beneath his jacket to rest on his right oblique, lovingly caressing the fabric of his shirt. He jumps out of ticklishness but otherwise stays put. A low hum sounds from the person’s throat, and he finds himself moving towards it, urged on by their hand. 

He’s cold. Lonely, maybe, and humiliated. So he does what he knows best: hide. For once, the hand on his waist guides him all the while. He curls into their chest, cringing at the lukewarm dampness of his pants and how it wrings when he folds himself up. The coy pride he’d felt when the stains had been seminal is completely absent. Now, the dampness only disgusts him. Kicks up a fuss. 

It’s smothered—not eased, _smothered—_ by kisses to the top of his head. _Easy. Good boy._ His ear presses up to their collarbone, near their humming throat. The sound they’re making is a deep purr. It vibrates their bones in his ear and continues until he’s fully relaxed in their arms. The stench of his waste has settled into something mellow, surprisingly not as noticeable as he thought it’d be. His mind keeps it at the forefront of his thoughts, though, even when the scent of jasmine beckons his attention. 

The comfort, which had been helped by his jacket and the fingers emanating warmth into his body, lulls him into a dazed contentedness. It breaks when their hand begins to trail from his waist to his crotch. He scrabbles to squeeze his legs together, ashamed, and pushes their wrist away with his hands. _Please don’t. Don’t look._ But a warning scratch to his scalp and a grunt gravelly in their throat has him backing off. To keep from breaking order, he grips his hands in his own hands, digging his nails into opposite knuckles. Their hand continues its way to his most desecrated area, and a softly placed kiss—almost a sigh into his hair—praises him for his corrected conduct. 

He knows it shouldn’t feel as good as it does. He knows he doesn’t deserve it. Not this time. _Especially_ not this time. His nails dig deeper into the webs of his fingers, and it’s easier to focus on the dull pain than on the dirtiness of his clothing. Of himself.

He doesn’t know if it’s the last praise he’ll get. He knows, in the back of his mind; his rational, rational mind; that _maybe_ he’s exaggerating. _Maybe_ this isn’t as bad as it feels like it is. _Maybe_ this will all be brushed off...just like his panic after school, just like the story he’d sobbed out about his past. _Maybe_ he’s being dramatic, and _maybe_ the person doesn’t mind that he’d lost the game. It could have been what they were planning from the start.

But it also could have _not_ been, and it’s the uncertainty that terrifies him. 

“Forgive me,” he finds himself whispering. Deep down—well, at surface level too—he knows it’s not enough. He’d _pissed_ himself, for God’s sake, _and_ he’d lost the game. They must be disappointed, right? It just makes sense to be. 

They also must be waiting for some kind of compensation—a snap of thought has him reopening his drooping eyes: he’s sitting on their cock!—...but the knowledge isn’t enough to keep his exhausted body alert. 

The carding of the fingers in his hair, the soft kisses to his head—are they _smiling?_ Can’t be—and the light touches to his wet crotch are supplements to the warmth lulling him to sleep. If anything, the pain in his hands helps him drift off. The movie plays as a foggy hum in the background—white noise.

And right before he completely slips into slumber, perhaps out of a habit so deeply instilled that his unconscious disregards his inner turmoil, he rubs his cheek against their chest and murmurs:

“Thank you.” 

 **“...”** A pause in their fingers is the last thing he registers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed!! please notify me of any mistakes you encounter. much love!


	4. treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...but since he’s been such a good boy, he gets a surprise treat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notable tags this chapter: cock worship, deepthroating, skull fucking, "accidental" watersports, overstimulation(!), ahegao, excessive fantasy, kissing, masturbation, praise kink, fear of discovery, coming in pants, multiple orgasms
> 
> porn begins at 10:33 PM. that entirety is porn. yes.

**8:55 PM**

A distinct feeling of fingers beneath Suzuki’s chin rouses him from sleep. It’s ticklish; playful. A little annoying. He fusses it away with a lazy protest, something like _mmmnno._ When it doesn’t go away, he turns his cheek into his collar, fluffling it up with a pouty breath. He vaguely realizes that shifting his legs makes the recliner croak, but it’s all fuzz to him anyway. The soreness of his legs just makes him want to go back to sleep, but…

Whatever it is won’t leave him alone. It rubs his chin with a scratchy finger, pushing up against his bottom lip. He tries to pull away from it, but it only follows him until his head hits something behind him. He scrunches his face with a small, irritated whine. With blind fingers, he reaches up to push the perpetrator away, keeping his eyes stubbornly shut. The fingers become even pushier as if just to spite him, forcing his face forward to cup a palm to his cheek. 

“?..” His protest dies down when he feels himself melt into the warmth. _Feels good._ Curious, his hands find their way to a large hand with prominent veins. His mouth parts at what he finds. He runs his fingers over the rivered valleys of skin, feathering them. Weakness almost makes his hands fall right back down, but he keeps them up by sheer will alone.

“Sir?” Suzuki murmurs, sleep-drunk. He hears a faint, pleased hum and feels another rub below his lip.

 _It’s them!_ His body perks up in a smile. He pushes their palm tighter to his cheek with his fingers. It warms his room temperature face to a faux flush, and just to keep balance he leads the hand to his other cheek. He thinks he mumbles something like _portable heater,_ but he’s not really sure. A quiet laugh comes from before him, farther away than he’s used to. The thumb pushing into his bottom lip is something he’s infinitely familiar with though.

But before he can suck it into his mouth, it slides away. His tongue stays peeked out like an abandoned kitten. He thinks he hears another hum, this time amused, but it’s fuzzy beneath the sounds of whatever’s playing in the background. _Movie?_

A finger or two slides beneath his chin and tilts him up. He thinks he’s going to get a kiss, so he prepares for it with the noble grace of an excited virgin. He sits up straighter, awkwardly purses his lips, and drops his hands to his knees to curl them into his pants. 

What he feels isn’t a kiss to his lips but a kiss to his forehead. 

The notion is deeply familiar. It feels good, and he likes it, but a niggle of worry and memory starts to poke at his system. _Leaving?_ His hands go back up to blindly grasp at their shirt in case something—anything—goes wrong. He feels his grabbiness be ushered off, and his worry only skyrockets, wrenching his mouth open with a cracky protest—

Until another kiss is pressed to his head, this time with a clear snuffle of amusement. _Easy._ He immediately quiets down out of relief, if not confusion. A hand snakes beneath his jacket collar to rub at his neck, teasing at something that hurts more than it should. Their thumb seems smug; proud. It digs its nail into his skin not as punishment but self-indulgence. Something about it makes the fear of being choked ebb away.

He doesn’t have time to think about it before it’s gone. One last kiss is pressed to his head, feeling more than a little rushed and incomplete. The pressure in front of him changes the next instant. 

He opens his eyes, then, and all he sees is a blurry TV screen. If he’d been confused before, it doesn’t measure up to what he feels now. A numb, ignorant kind of bliss keeps him glancing around the room to gauge where he’s at. Some kind of universal force makes him feel like he’s just traveled dimensions and woken up from a thousand-year slumber. The sensations around him are too foreign to be real.

His hands fall back down to the side. Leather? He’s sitting on leather, but his parents don’t own anything leather. He’s somewhere else, then. Where... _Aunt Emi’s._ Right. It’s cold, but he’s warm. His fingers feel around his arms—fleece. He looks down—black. _A present._ He smiles as he adjusts his collar. In the process, the fleece tickles the same place the person had dug their nail in, but he doesn’t think about it too much. 

He glances to the side to take in the couch. For some reason, the sight of the kids fills him with dread, and he rubs at his crusted eyes to see if he’s hallucinating. He’s not. The kids are most certainly there, but at least the dread in his heart tones down. His eyes hurt too much to be normal, though, and he wonders why his eyes are so sensitive. _Crying._ Something clicks in his head, but he doesn’t quite know what it is. The kids are whispering to each other, and they sound excited. Are they happy? Satisfied? Either one, or both, is good.

Suzuki looks back at the TV screen for a while. The film seems to be in its final scene before the credits, loud and boisterous. It only serves to disconnect his thoughts from his body even more, and he wonders if this is what it feels like to zone out high on drugs. So floaty, so nice...even if he’s a little confused. 

Maybe ten seconds pass before he feels like he’s missing something, and he pats around his pockets on reflex. One second passes and he recognizes what he’s looking for. His phone—where’s his—

Then it dawns on him like a tipping flour pack finally succumbing to physics. A cloudy mess of puffed white. A big Oh _Shit,_ like he’d forgotten there was a test next period and he didn’t study. Like he’d forgotten to close the garage halfway through a hangout. It’s an all-consuming, snapping jaw of toothy dread that caves a hole in his middle too fast for him to plummet immediately.

He knows he has a few moments before he crashes, so he scrambles to find his phone. He jumps from the recliner and runs his hands across the warm spot where he—and the _person,_ where are they? Where?; abandoned? Was he abandoned? Please no...nonono—sat, holding his breath to stop a sob from forming. Now is a time he regrets having a black phone case. Maybe if he’d gotten those god awful reflective cases like Julie, he wouldn’t be having such a hard time finding his—

His fingers hit something hard and flat-ish, and he throws it up with a shakiness unique to a crack addict. The thought makes him let out a nervous little laugh. Behind him, he hears a _“Suzu-nii?”_ but he ignores it. He can tend to that later. 

“...” 

On second thought, he waves a reassuring hand to the back and holds up one finger to signal _wait._ He’ll alert the kids if he turns around looking like he’s about to break down sobbing, but it just feels wrong to ignore them. His other hand, his left hand, accidentally unlocks his phone with Touch ID when he clicks the home button. His teeth grit together. He’d just wanted to see his notifications. But it’s okay! _It’s okay._ Can’t be helped that he set a fingerprint for both thumbs. He can just scroll down the top and look at his notification history. 

So he does that. His phone shakes in his left hand until he brings his right back to steady it. The time reads **20:58.** More than an hour since he’d last checked—more than an hour since he’d shamed himself on the person’s hand. The thought makes him squeeze his phone hard enough to quiver, but he knows he’s not strong enough to break it and he knows it’s not going to do him any good. He’d pissed himself and what? Fell asleep? _Fell asleep?_ There’s no coming back from that. There’s nothing. 

 _They’re_ not coming back after that.  

Suzuki sucks in a harsh breath; shifts and feels the dryness of his sweatpants. He sniffs through his nose—it’s starting to get clogged with snot—and smells the same jasmine in his room. They’d cleaned him up. Made him smell nice. Let him keep the jacket. And maybe for the last time, they gave him a kiss to his head. He feels his bottom lip tremble, and he hates it. He grits his teeth harder to stop. He shouldn’t be crying over something like this—but hadn’t he been abandoned?—and he certainly shouldn’t feel this devastated—but hadn’t he gotten close to them, just a little bit?—and it’s not that bad if he really thinks about it—but isn’t it? Isn’t it?

Suzuki wipes his eyes. He’s crying. Bitterness for himself worsens the taste in his mouth. He ignores the pain of dragging his knuckles against puffy, inflamed skin and rubs at his eyes again and again. It’s okay. It’s okay. The only—only, only, only; he repeats to himself until the lie starts to gain substance—regret he has is that he’d never gotten the chance to say goodbye. It’s okay. This is okay. He’ll go back to how he was before this. _Forgetting should be easy,_ and somehow saying that to himself makes the curry in his stomach rise to his throat. He swallows everything back down, even the saliva beginning to coat his teeth. He’s okay. This is okay. He’d gotten over moving; he can get over this.

He needs to get himself together anyway. There’s kids behind him. He needs to talk to Aunt Emi and Uncle Misaki. He needs to wish them good night; thank them for the guest bedroom. Right. That’s right. The task at hand is easier to focus on than what’ll surely come later, and it’s even easier to push the future out of his head when he looks at his phone. 

What he sees spreads a wavering kind of smile on his face. The Whatsapp group chat with his friends is as ridiculously active as ever. He watches his notifications change at the flick of a microsecond. He thinks his friends are talking about the chemistry notebook check next week, and he _thinks_ he sees Michael say something along the lines of:

_bruh my husband @Suzii is ignoring me so_

which makes him exhale from the nose. He barely manages to keep his snot from dripping, and he sniffles just in case. The next texts that show up are all over the place, and it’s a tad surreal watching the words _chemistry_ and _husband_ and _horses_ overlap each other. He glimpses Julie say something like:

_bro and u called ME gay ??? gay ass_

which is more than likely in response to Michael. The texts alone are enough to calm him into a sense of normalcy. _That’s right._ It be like that sometimes, but nothing besides his private life has changed. He has his friends and a good life in front of him. This is just a blip. It’ll hurt, always; of course, but he can do this. It’s okay.

So he taps onto the Whatsapp notification tab with intent to join in the fun. He’s had the whole inside-joke husband thing with Michael before, and it’s only tradition that he comes in to play along. He’s almost certain the photo Julie just sent is the picture of the Asian guy yelling “hah! Gay!”

The thought lightens his heart; fills the hole in his middle with fluff. Leave it up to her for the lightning quick reaction pictures. He’ll come in and send his customary “You’re funny!” and chit chat with his friends before speaking with Aunt Emi and her kids. It’s okay. He’s already beginning to forget about it all. Maybe this isn’t so bad. At least the person let him off kindly with a kiss. No hard feelings, right? It be like that sometimes, and sometimes like that it be. The quick flash of the [meme](https://i.imgur.com/jpuyyDz.jpg) in his head makes him exhale another breath from his nose. 

It’s not like he’s tapping his phone with the hope that something other than Whatsapp opens or anything. Not like he’s staring at his phone manic. Not like he’s debating to throw his phone in the trash if—

“!!!!!” And it’s not like—it’s not like he feels his entire body perk up like metal to an overhead magnet when something _does_ pop up and _does_ select the OK and _does_ kick into every part of his body with giddiness and glee and elation and relief and;

Would you like to meet again? If yes, press OK. If no, press outside the box. 

 

OK

And he can’t slide his finger to the side of his screen fast enough to savor the moment. He takes a second, really takes a second, and stares at the words sitting mellowly on his screen. The emotions flurrying about his head seem more than a bit over excited compared to the unmoving words. His eyes are watery again, like an idiot, and maybe he _is_ an idiot because he shouldn’t be this happy when he still has to deal with the torment of peeing himself. Maybe he _isn’t_ okay with being abandoned at this point, and maybe he’ll have to come to terms with that sooner rather than later. 

But right now, this is okay. This is more than okay. 

_Yesyesyesyesyes_

His finger lifts off alongside 85% of his body weight in dread.

**10:23 PM**

The problem, though, is that Suzuki doesn’t know when exactly the person is going to show up. 

He knows they should come soon if he’s going off earlier encounters. He tries to calculate it in his head: it’d taken around two hours for the encounter at school; less than thirty minutes when he’d first walked into the living room for the first movie; and...he’s not sure about the rest. After all, there’s been times where he doesn’t get a notification at all and they still show up! Not like he’s complaining, though. 

 _Any visit is a good visit._ He smiles a little and curls into a loose shrimp to warm his legs a bit. _Yes._

The visits he _has_ gotten notified for—they couldn’t have been more than a few hours after a pop-up. Maybe a four hour interval if he’s being specific. That means he’s looking at a range of three-and-a-half hours. That’s the time he’ll aim for, then. Not too hopeful—it’s already past the thirty minutes anyway—and not too hopeless—he thinks he’s going to cry if it passes the four hour mark. Reasonable and hopefully probable. 

Suzuki turns over in the guest bed, holding his phone to his chest. Once situated, he brings his screen into view, sliding the edge of his case against dappled covers characteristic of cotton washed many times over. He clicks the home button loud in the silence, squints at the familiar blast of light, taps the center of the screen while avoiding the Whatsapp notifications, and waits until the screen blacks out again. 

The time reads **22:24** at the moment he clicks it. He has about two hours of waiting left, then, and normally the wait wouldn’t seem that long. _Normally._ For some reason, right now it feels like time is out to get him, stretching and dawdling about. He wishes he could tell it to hurry up, but then it feels like he’s telling the _person_ to hurry up. Just the thought raises his haunches and coils him away. _Disrespectful._ He’s already being spoiled just with the promise of a visit. He can wait. He can’t help but wait.

And he knows it’s lame: checking his phone and tapping the screen like an idiot with the small hope of getting another notification. What is he? Some kind of nervous girl waiting for a text from a guy? 

Suzuki purses his lips at the resounding _yes_ said in his own voice in his own head. _It really be yaself that does it to you though,_ he hears Julie say. He has an urge to text her to tell her she speaks very wisely but decides against it for the sake of his dignity. Texting her would busy his hands and maybe take his mind off waiting, yes, but he doesn’t want to bother her. He can’t hold that good of a conversation one-on-one anyway.

He turns over again and drags the blanket up to his shoulders. He clicks the home button. Squints. Taps the screen. Waits. And then, when nothing shows up, he becomes blind once more.

The high of the earlier notification has long since worn off, but he’ll surmise that getting into bed alone would’ve felt a lot worse if he hadn’t gotten it. He knows, at the very least, that he can get to see them again. He’ll get to touch them again, maybe, as long as he’s allowed to. The thought excites him in more ways than one, though at the moment it touches his heart more than his crotch. He knows he shouldn’t get his hopes up; he knows...especially when he has to try really hard not to think about how he’d pissed himself on their hand...and fell asleep right after…

Suzuki sucks in his teeth and just barely saves himself from cringing into another dimension. _Too much._ He flops over the other side and forces himself to think about the wound on his tongue and the marks on his body. The latter doesn’t fail to send his mood an upward direction, and he drops his phone in favor of rubbing his neck with his fingertips. He can still feel the pinched scab of skin; can still remember the indent of their thumb nail. The memory of the person’s prideful thumb on his neck makes him a shy kind of happy. Maybe they were admiring the mark. Just maybe. He’d slide his hands beneath his pants to feel at the marks on his thigh, but that’s a bit...

Instead, he runs his tongue across the bottom of his top teeth, feeling them catch into the puncture. It stings sharp and ticklish. He wonders if he’ll ever tire of feeling it. Thinking about how he’d gotten the tongue wound makes him burrow a smile into the blanket. The first wound he’s ever gotten came from getting too enthusiastic after school, and this one came from getting too enthusiastic in the _bathroom._

He moves his right hand to his mouth and rubs at the slightly chapped ridges of his bottom lip. It’s plump and mellow, too tender for it not to bring forth any memories. Of course, the way he’d acted in the bathroom has its own moments of embarrassment. He’s still not over how he’d promised them he’d be a _good boy._ God, what was he even…

Suzuki burrows deeper into the blankets, face flushing. He curls more like a shrimp.

...But the bathroom was good. It felt good. Amazing. Laughing with them felt amazing. _Kissing_ them felt amazing. He wishes he’d had more kisses after the bathroom session, but he tries not to dwell on it. What’s done is done. So what if he wasted more than an hour asleep? It just...God…

_Don’t think about it_

And he tries not to. He really does. Instead he thinks about the bubbly giggling the two of them shared, the whole memorial service for his tongue after it’d gotten stabbed, the fear of almost falling into the sink. He thinks about the words they’d whispered into his ear, the fingers on his face and in his mouth, the soft huffs of laughter brushing wind across his helix, the warmth of their body, their heartbeat, the color of their skin...the thickness of their fingers, the electricity up his spine, the color of their cock—he shifts uncomfortably under the blanket—the movement of their muscles beneath his fingertips, and the texture of their hair. He thinks about it—all of it; lets it wash him with bliss and dizzy elation; lets it make him feel special. 

It dulls the sharp blade of shame into something less severe; something that’s more like a comical, albeit still glaring, shine of light into his eyes. Something that makes him want to hide instead of die. Something...something more like he’s remembering his chuunibyou phase when he was younger. 

Suzuki cringes into himself at the repressed childhood memories. _Embarrassing._ But it’s not _horrible,_ especially after so long thinking about it.

Yes, he _did_ lose the game and he _did_ pee himself and he _did_ fail to properly apologize—which is, in his opinion, the worst of it all—but it can’t be that bad if they still “asked” if he wanted to meet again. Right? That’s only if they’re not planning to break it off with him when they show up, which...he can’t really disregard the possibility of, but it doesn’t seem like something they’d do. He hopes he’s correct in his judgement.

He’s sure he is. He knows more about them now, doesn’t he? He’s accurately assumed orders and received praise for it more and more often. Knowing he’s able to comprehend at least some of their intentions runs a pampering flutter over his body. 

He’s glad he’d ran to the bathroom to cry. The sentiment spreads a self-deprecating smile across his face, but thinking about the things he’d learned in that small window of time lessens its toxicity. 

A passing memory catches at his running train of thought and makes him pause. He reruns the entirety of the day in his head and zones in on the bathroom. More specifically, he zones into their voice. _“Yes,”_ they’d said; whispered into his ear. To what? To—

Something clicks. 

A buzzing arises in his chest. An idea forms from a wisp in his head. _Maybe…_

He brings his face out into the colder air and listens in. There’s nothing but the soft hum of an air conditioner and the breathy lilts of atmosphere. The room he’s in is empty; barren from lack of use and smelling of incense and oriental ash. Even the bed and blankets have a floaty sense to it, like what he feels is not all there. He has an inkling: a brushing against his conscious like the itch of a small ant on his skin, _surely_ not an actual ant from years of knowing what is and isn’t real; and usually he’d ignore such a feeling, scratch it away with a dismissive swipe, but...

“Sir?” He whispers into the room before his courage slips him. The word hangs stale in the air, and he feels his throat begin to close up in preservation of his pride. _But what pride is left after peeing on their hand?_ He pushes on, forcing the syllables past his lips. They scream loud in his head but come out hushed and afraid—hopeful. “Are you there?” 

Silence. 

After twelve seconds of waiting, he pulls the blanket back up over his shoulders and buries his chin beneath it, flicking his eyes around the room for any change. Flighty embarrassment ricochets in his head and becomes a staticky white noise the longer time ticks by in silence. 

What was he _thinking?_ Now he wants nothing more than to bury himself in a hole and die. Restlessness begins to crawl into his limbs, and he struggles to fight off the urge to throw the blanket about and flail because—because there’s no good in making himself seem like any more of a fool than he already has! He talked to _air._ Is he delusional? Crazy? 

Something leaden and dangerously close to disappointment smothers the buzz in his chest.

 _Think about something else._ Something concrete. The kisses, the finger-sucking, the movies that he didn’t even watch, the kids smiling—so cute!—the warmth of the person’s fingers on his thighs...tracing the pattern. He pauses, then, and retraces it in his head, grateful for any sort of preoccupation. It seems like it’s been a while since he’d last felt or thought about the pattern. The revisit ignites a freshened taste of curiosity, and he pats around for his phone. This is as good a time as any to distract himself.

He brings his screen into view and unlocks it with Touch ID, swiping the home page to the right. He also swipes upwards to see if the screen brightness is actually all the way down. There should be no way if he still has to squint, but alas, there isn’t a speck of white on the sun bar. He makes a note to himself to reduce his white point even further later, but for now he swipes back down and taps his _Notes_ app. 

An array of lackluster titles greets him, all along the lines of something to do with dates and testing rooms from 2016 to 2019. The sight hits him with a wave of subtle nostalgia, but he ignores the earlier notes for now and taps to create a new one. Then, he taps the marker icon. He shuffles into a more comfortable position to bring his index finger to draw, ignoring the cold liquid air slipping down his sleeves. 

It takes a moment of visualizing it in his head to actually draw it out.

The pattern is simple: eight non-lifting strokes with sharp angles. Some overlap neatly and others overlap at a strange intersection at the bottom. He can’t tell if it’s his sloppiness causing it or if it’s supposed to be that way, but it’s as close as he’ll get for now.

_Looks like two bowties._

The comparison makes him unconsciously smile. One bowtie is oriented correctly; the other is sideways to the right of that one, and larger. He readjusts his phone into both hands and hovers his thumb above the screen. He traces over the pattern, closing his eyes to imagine it on his skin. 

His finger touches the screen on accident. He keeps it there, knowing that a dot or two on the drawing shouldn’t be too bad. He also keeps his eyes closed for a few more moments, entertaining himself by thinking things like:

_Wouldn’t it be funny if I opened my eyes and saw them?_

Which—and he’ll never admit this—is why he keeps his finger still on the screen. The tiny hope that continually spreads through him makes him embarrassed for himself.

So he opens his eyes. At first he thinks the whiteness in his vision is normal. It’s not until his eyes glance and focus— _why is it darker in the corner?—_ that he sees what’s beneath his thumb. 

And he blinks once. Twice. Thrice. Because there’s no way... _Hallucinating? Dreaming?_

He slides his thumb to the side of the screen, heart holding back its beating until the very threshold of life or death squeezes it to beat; fingers shaking, gripping the phone too tight; breath held suffering in his lungs. The words blur with the intensity of light.

**Yes.**

I am here.

 

Install Now

Remind Me Later

Details

 _Are they a software update?_ is, funnily enough, the first thing that pops into his mind. The notification style is definitely new, but it’s the person. He knows it. The _Install Now_ is selected for him in place of an OK, after all.

He has to take a long moment to process what had happened. He knows. They know. They are here. Watching him. Invisible. It’s confirmed—for real now. For sure. It’s legitimate. They’re—they’re _really_ here…

A turbulent swirl of arousal and uneasiness makes itself home in his belly, each taint seemingly competing for dominance. He crosses his legs beneath the covers when arousal just barely wins over, boosted by his pride’s redemption. So he isn’t _that_ delusional if they—well...he laughs a little. 

The only problem now is that he’s not sure what the options mean. _Install Now_ meaning...they’re here now? 

They’ll show up _now?_ Right after he lifts his finger and completes the selection, they’ll show themselves from their invisible place of hiding? He likes the idea. He likes it a lot. But—

“?!—” His thoughts short-circuit when something that’s most definitely a hand covers his eyes and blocks his vision. His sight blankets in black. A surge of quick-sighted terror seizes his muscles. His heart skips and tumbles into a running frenzy that started off on the wrong foot, hammering with effort since it had neglected beating earlier. As fear seeps into his system as a replacement for blood, his only instinct is to take in a breath and hold it—

_Please don’t hurt me_

—as his hands clasp his phone tightly, both thumbs pushing into the screen hard enough to bend the glass. A part of him screams to preserve something so expensive, but his instincts throw it down in favor of surviving the encounter—of keeping his contact with the person safe. He takes in another terrified sip of breath when he feels a tug on his phone, and he holds his vice-like grip on it even though he’s trembling into the bed about to wet himself again because that’s—that’s his _phone_ and it’s his only contact with—he can’t lose it—

The pulling stops, but terror piles over into the moment of peace. He doesn’t stop shaking even when a hand closes around his white knuckles, not in the slightest malevolent but still too _big_ to be anything but threatening. He feels the pressure on his eyes lighten just enough for him to no longer feel like his head will cave in. The fingers on his face slide apart to free his left eye’s vision, and he takes in the sight before him with a wide-blown pupil, darting rapidly around the limited space he can see. The dim light of his phone helps him only minimally. He feels his eyeballs roll against the intruder’s skin, tickling his right eye with his lashes.

What he sees is a notoriously pale, large hand. It looks like an ominous dragon, what with the angle the phone light is hitting it, but...blue veins. Seeing the colors registers the feeling of its palm: warm. Rough. Gentle. It brushes a thumb against his knuckles in a sheepish greeting. 

“S...S-Sir?”

**10:33 PM**

“I…” Suzuki starts, shifting his body and hearing the fabric of his sweatpants swish. The leather creaks minutely with the movement. The words have been nagging at his fingertips and eroding his throat ever since he’d been picked up and brought here, and yet... “I…” 

The person encourages him with a rub to his thigh, and he hears the swish of _that_ too. The absolute silence of the living room unnerves him. Any sound, any sound at all, is picked up by his human ears. He can only imagine what it sounds like to their presumably keener hearing. 

Not having the collar around his neck just makes him feel even more vulnerable. He’s not sure why they’d taken the jacket off of him, but he won’t complain. He’ll never complain...never. His heartbeat, skipping and pounding, is probably audible to them now that the fleece isn’t there to muffle it. Maybe his breaths too, as well as the blood rushing through his carotids. Maybe even the words he’s trying to say but can’t.

_If only it worked like that_

“I-I…” because god, why is this so hard? It’s just an apology; nothing he’s never done before. He swallows and shifts again, feeling his nerves ramp up by the second. He has to get it out quickly or else he’s going to lose his chance. So he braces himself, takes a deep breath, and says:

 _I’m so sorr—_ “I lost.” 

Suzuki almost facepalms. That’s not even close to what he wanted to say. 

The person hums, though, in short agreement. _Indeed,_ they seem to say. Their deadpan makes him blush, but it also feels better to know they’re listening and not zoning out while he dawdles. The lack of laughter makes him feel taken seriously too. He reorients himself and shifts again, ignoring how his rawed member is pushed upwards by his position on their lap. It’s a familiar position—comfortable—but it brings back a little too many sensations for him to rest at ease. 

A hand on the back of his neck makes him jump, but he’s pulled forward gently enough that he falls into groove before it’s too late. He opens his mouth a second before their lips connect with his. They’re smiling; humming once more in approval. The sound shuts his eyes closed to savor it. 

He breathes out a shaky breath from his nose when their tongue waltzes into his mouth at the get-go. They lap at his lips seemingly self-indulgently, not quite letting him catch onto the flow of tongue. He stutters about but nonetheless enjoys the kiss, and he’s left drooling and breathless when they separate from him. In his daze, he hears a slip of wetness, and he furrows his brows at the sound—did they lick their lips? 

A chuckle, neither confirming nor denying, vibrates beneath the fingers— _his_ fingers—clutched to their chest. It’s followed by an arch of his back as their index finger travels from his hair down to the dip of his nape, grazing the tip of their nail across his skin. He makes a high and soft, breathy noise at the onslaught of shivery tingles, and the person rubs the broad of their fingers across his nape to soothe it out. Goosebumps prick up his skin, running lines across his covered limbs. He flushes when a purr rumbles right next to his ear, attacking his nerves with yet another ruffle of pleasure.

“I-I’m sorry,” he finds himself blurting to reroute his embarrassment, pulling away with his eyes opened but blind. The person’s fingers falter on his neck, squeezing, and he swears he feels their thighs tense beneath his legs. The movements are more than surprise. _Apprehension?_ The undertones only add another layer to what he doesn’t know. His mouth blabbers off without him, though, and the moment is gone so quickly he thinks he must’ve imagined it. 

“For piss—peeing on you. _I’m so sorry_ I…don’t know what...I mean, _because I_ ...I’m sorry for losing and...and falling asleep. I didn’t mean to! I just—you’re warm so. And i-it felt good so I don’t know why I— _I’m so sorry—”_

His speech is a mess, flipping back and forth between languages and stuttering all the while. It’s no better than when he’d blabbed off in the bathroom. The memory of what he’d said— _done—_ clamps his mouth shut, and his face burns with humiliation. The only saving grace is that he’d managed to apologize, somehow, for all of his misgivings. He did it _badly,_ but at least he did it. He’ll let himself slip this time, especially since they’re here and he doesn’t want to waste any more time. They don’t seem upset with him, especially after that kiss, so maybe...maybe he’s okay.

And he’d expected laughter in place of a scathing rebuttal. Teasing. Even a dismissive hum. What he gets is a soft breath of a fond, loving purr telling him he’d had nothing to worry about in the first place. A pull of their fingers pushes him into a sighing kiss against his lips, loosening his nervous grip on their clothing. The veins of subtle relief flowing from _their_ mannerisms to his flickers something curious in his head.

But he can’t think about it when his body melts like wax to a fire, dripping and gooey from the top down, mouth drooling and eyes probably leaking more than a few tears. _Feels good._ A pleased hum rumbles against his mouth. The room fills with the glide of tongue against tongue, wet like the sound of how it feels to rub too much lotion into skin. The sound ignites a low sizzle inside his belly, embers rediscovered now that deadweight has melted to clear the way. 

The person pulls back with a plip of saliva, not bothering to swipe his lips with their tongue before separating. His mouth is left pink and shiny, bruised from earlier kisses. He pants and averts his eyes when he feels their gaze running over him, but he doesn’t hide. A low, deeply appreciative croon is accompanied by another pull for another kiss, and Suzuki can’t help but feel he’s being doted on. He basks in it—relishes it, savors it. If he’s good enough for seconds, thirds, fourths, then he’ll gladly be kissed until his mouth is sore. 

_I’m yours_

A tightening of the fingers in his hair. This kiss is longer; wetter. His breaths grow shallower the deeper the kiss becomes, and soon he’s whimpering into their mouth as their fingers dig into his scalp, tongue pricking against their canines as they continue on with the sole purpose of getting their fill. The merciless sucking and biting is quick and hungry, too skilled and energetic for his clumsy inexperience to catch up, but it _feels good._ He struggles to breathe, but the building desperation for breath is out-raced by his arousal. The noises he’s making, the one thing he’s good at, are meek and high—little _nh_ and _hnghs—_ and they only seem to spur the person on.

“!” The hand on his thigh snakes beneath his shirt to roam his skin, scavenging every inch and pulling out his shivers. His slight ticklishness only seems to feed the ball of electricity following their fingertips. They run their nails over his ribs, riding up his shirt and massaging their thumb into his squishier spots. He moves his hands to give them more access. He runs the tops of his nails over their collarbone as his hands travel to their shoulders. Once there, he wraps his arms loosely around their neck, scooting closer. 

A pleased smile, accompanied by an exhale from their nose, opens their mouth enough for him to feel their teeth bare above his lip. It’s a dominant, prideful gesture that showcases their canines, and it has the desired effect on him. He quivers at a second-long flash of imagination: if those teeth were to sink into his lip, his _neck,_ how would it feel? Two one inch-long, girthy needles embedded into his skin. Would it burn? A hot sting that itches with trickling pleasure? Would it make him yelp? Implode his body with terror? Would they soothe him with their tongue after the fact; lap at his wound until his eyes cloud and dilate for a different reason besides fear? 

Suzuki whines at the twisting mix of dread and arousal in his gut. He presses in closer and tilts his head, arching his straightened back when the hand beneath his shirt scrapes nails up his spine. Something closer to fire sings through his veins instead of electricity. He wishes he could see the red streaks raked up his back, wishes the scratches to last long enough to admire tomorrow. 

 _Mark me,_ he urges with a squirm of his body. _Mark me, mark me._

The person forces separation with a wet smack of lips. They sit back into the recliner, leaving Suzuki hanging and panting for breath with a ditzy gaze. He tries to follow them back, but their thumb rounds beneath his jawline to keep him in position. _Stay._ He frowns, _pouts,_ but concedes. He shifts flat on their lap, relishing the burn of his tensed legs as his muscles finally get a chance to relax. The nail imprints on his right thigh feel especially sore. His tongue—his wound—prickles with minute needles in his mouth, like sparse static flickering on his taste buds. 

The hand on his back ghosts its way back down his waist, caressing the invisible hairs on his skin rather than the skin itself. He closes his panting mouth and swallows down a tickled noise, jolting partly away from their hand and into the fingers holding his face still. He feels more than hears the deep sigh from the person. Their shoulders lift beneath his forearms and fall just as smoothly. It’s then that he hears a bristly kind of brushing noise, strikingly similar to hair against the seat of a car. He can only assume the person had tilted their head to their shoulders—he feels something slight tickle the fabric of his sleeves. 

A contented, lazy purr. It makes him fidget on top of their thighs. The purr turns into a chuckle as his breathing gets a bit shallower. A pattern is drawn into his waist as if just to tease him, and he shakily inhales as he leans away from the tickling fingers. Another dreamy-like sigh ends the laughter. Their thumb edges to his face to swipe the wetness of his bottom lip while their other hand cups his waist. Their thumb massages his hip bone. Moments pass in silent appraisal. 

Suzuki waits nervously for the results, trying his best to keep still. He can feel their eyes on him, feel their smirk, feel their fingers measuring every quiver of his muscles—

 ** _“Good boy,”_** he hears, drawled and leisurely, sounding as approving as it sounds pleased. Like all the times before, Suzuki sucks in a hiccuped sip of breath. It dries the back of his mouth and throat. A sharp spike in elation, arousal, happiness— _something—_ makes his belly hurt with the suddenness of it, and he tries not to squeeze his thighs and squirm. The thumb on his hip bone teases beneath the elastic band of his sweatpants. On instinct, he grinds his ass downwards, parting his mouth once more.

Breathing—panting—through his mouth runs passes of cool air over the tingling of his tongue. It feels like an allergic reaction, almost itchy, and it spreads down to his throat with every breath like spores in the wind. 

He lets himself be pulled into another kiss, but it’s softer than what he wants. Their tongue rides against his injured one with the gentleness and tenderness of a lover—the thought makes his neck flush pink—and they keep him from pricking against their teeth. It feels good, but...a swirl of something messy rapidly forms in his stomach. It’s similar to the build-up he’d had before his “accident,” and the familiarity of it—the humiliation—somehow manages to speed his impatience. 

He knows what he wants, that’s why. Had it hot and dense on his tongue before; dripping, pulsating. 

“Please,” he says between teeth and tongue, high and breathy. The person eases off to let him speak but presses their thumb into his mouth. He gives it a suckle; licks beneath their nail. He translates what he wants into the tip of his tongue. “Please? I know I lost, but...Sir, can I…? Please...” _I’ll be good._

He hurries his hand down their torso, purposely grazing over their nipples beneath their shirt. His fingers push into the rough fabric of their crotch. They’re wearing denim this time, but he still feels the same heat from before. His mouth waters at the thought of uncovering the throbbing mass beneath, of licking it raw into his throat. 

 _“Hmm.”_ A lilting hum buzzes his senses. It’s teasing, like they’re waving a piece of candy in front of his eyes, debating if they should give it up or not. He reaches pitifully for it. He spreads his legs and burbles something that sounds close to _please,_ putting on his best teary eyes and furrowed brows. The drool dribbling from the corner of his mouth is a lucky bonus, and so is the thumb in his mouth that he doesn’t neglect to lick at.

_Please please please_

The utter lack of shame seems to catch them off-guard. He hears a hitch in their breath and feels their grip on his waist tighten. Their hand slides from his face, then, dragging their wet thumb down his neck all the way to their crotch. It pushes past his needy hands and jingles their zipper tab.

_Ziii—_

They manage to pull down about halfway before he fusses away their hand. They back off only because he keeps nudging at their wrist. Their hand, perplexed but indulging, retreats to stroke his left thigh. In the process, they tickle the steep nail imprints beneath his sweatpants, and he shivers as he speaks.

“I want to…” he murmurs, face flush with heady want. Out of politeness, he glances up from beneath his lashes to what he hopes is their face. Just as quickly, he averts his gaze back down. He can’t see, but it’s more comfortable with his eyes open. 

At his motion, the hand pauses on his thigh. He hears them breathe out something strangely indecipherable—something clicks in the recesses of his mind—but he pays it only a passing thought. It’s hidden beneath the jingle of their zipper anyway. He fumbles with the tab to pull it all the way back up, ignoring the chortle at how particular he’s being.

He wants to do this properly, that’s why. 

So he quickly, and as gracefully as possible, slides from their thighs down to the floor and onto his knees. The excited twitches of his body make it difficult to move smoothly, but he manages. He can’t help but make quiet _hn!_ and _ah..._ noises when his tender member grinds across the fabric of his underwear. Their hands let him off easy, and he feels their legs spread to accommodate his presence between their knees. 

Once on the floor, he shifts and feels his underwear stretch across his member. To ease it, he’d have to sit upwards and pull the waistband of his pants downwards, but he doesn’t have the care to do so. It feels good, anyway, even if it hurts just the tiniest bit.

A hand to the top of his head, completely engulfing him in its palm, is enough to distract from the pain. He hears a swish of fabric and a creak as the person scoots to the front of the recliner. Their crotch nears his nose enough for him to feel its heated presence. He can smell the fresh linen scent; the undertone of musk. The itching on his tongue, down his tonsils, and to his throat is rash-like and sizzling. It’s not to the point of coughing—thank god—but it’s just a little more than he can handle, like he’s about to tip over with a slight wind. Suzuki feels his patience dwindle and his stress rise the more time he spends dawdling.

So as soon as the person settles into place, he rides his hands up their calves and thighs. It’s a familiar motion, though he’s only practiced it once. His hands meet in the middle of their legs. He leans forward and feels their fingers brush back his bangs. Maybe just because he can, he goes the rest of the way to bury his nose in the crook of their thigh, inhaling their scent. Once he’s there, he can’t help but rub his nose into their crotch too. A small part of him screams _what are you doing?!_ and itches at his immodesty like an annoying insect, but he ignores it. 

The smell of clean heat calms him to a point of control. It’s sobering and intoxicating at the same time, easing his desperation and luring him into a sense of power. He’s on his knees, but this is _his._ A cape of confidence drapes from his shoulders, perhaps from experience. He knows what he’s doing; he’s practiced it. Later he’ll freak when he realizes the person has probably seen what he’s done to Fun Dip bars, but not now. 

He knows exactly what they like and what they want from him. _Yes._ This is his performance. His chance to prove what he’s worth. Yes! He opens his eyes half-lidded and severe, then tilts his head in quiet—near dismissive—acknowledgement of the hand petting his hair.

Their fingers stutter to a pause at the change in mood. 

He gives a reverent kiss to the denim near their zipper, then slides his fingers to the cool, tacky metal of the tab. He moves deftly and without hurry. There’s a nimbleness to his fingers that exaggerates the size of what’s beneath. This time he doesn’t fumble with the zipper, and he unravels it with slow caution over the folds of fabric. The steeper the V becomes, the more scent released. He leans closer to get his fill. His mouth salivates, and despite the extra lubrication, the itching on his tongue and in his throat only seems to get drier.

Two fingers on his right hand, ring and middle, edge into the open cavern of their jeans. He’s careful and suggestive, purposefully keeping his hand in the same position he’d use to slide his fingers inside of him. His own innuendo makes him titter. The heat of their mass is heavy and potent against his cold fingers. He knows how good the contrast feels, and he expects the twitch of their cock when he presses his fingers in. 

He ignores the spike of arousal in his belly. This isn’t about him. To help his indifference, he rests his cheek on their thigh atop his left hand. The fingers in his hair don’t exactly follow him, and his bangs fall back to his face in a messy frame.

He smiles in lazy arrogance. 

As he massages their bulge slow and casual, the nubs underneath become firmer until their member fully hardens. He curls his fingers and digs his nails in ever so slightly. It’s the same as how they’d use _their_ fingers to curl into his prostate. The memory makes his sweet spot tingle, and he makes a wispy _hn_ as he squirms. His nails unintentionally dig in harder. Their thigh tenses beneath his cheek, grounding him before his imagination takes off. He takes a second to breathe before coyly scratching at the denim near the zipper with his index.

He’s all done here. He gives his own left hand a kiss to substitute their thigh, not bothering to withdraw. The only motion he gives is a roll of his neck as he looks up from his lashes. His fingers continue to idly scritch at their nubs over the fabric. 

“Off, please?” He whispers, soft and scratchy. His syllables diffuse into one another like wisps of smoke. 

He hears a shuddering inhale from above him and feels their member twitch again. The exhale is a gruff form of agreement. Their hand finds its way back to his hair, threading his bangs to his scalp. He closes his eyes at the warmth dotting heavily through his head. _Good boy,_ they praise through a massage of their fingers. _Good, good boy._ A swell of pride in his chest makes him shiver.

He lets himself be moved off without a fuss. His fingers slip from their crotch to his thighs, and he wiggles backwards to give them more space, eventually resting both his hands on the carpeted floor. He arches his back to lean forward and rests his weight on the heels of his palms. He knows the position lets his eagerness show. His knees spread to accommodate the change, stretching the fabric of his clothing thinner across his penis. It feels good, a little _too_ good, but it’s okay. He prefers this over hunching his back. The position makes him feel just a teensy bit like a dog, like a Fido ready to fetch, but he tries not to think about it. 

Suzuki expects the shifting of fabric as well as the familiar change in atmosphere. What he doesn’t expect is the sudden creak of the recliner. It’s _absolutely_ the sound of someone standing up, and a millisecond of utter panic—no! Please not yet!—almost shatters his confident stride. Another creak sounds into the room, but he doesn’t register it. His fear climbs the longer he goes without a response; reassurance; hum, laugh, shushing, petting. 

But then he feels their fingers—he’d forgotten they were still in his hair—tug him forward, gently but ever so impatient. Maybe even a little teasing. His blood pressure plummets from its skyrocketed number, and he takes a moment to relish the uneven sting of his scalp, some follicles more sensitive than others. It’s confirmation that he’s still allowed. Embarrassment burns his face at his near overreaction, but it’s nothing too bad. 

The panic has already taken its toll, though, and he’s hesitant to take any further initiative. It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to, he just...doesn’t want to run the risk of anything, maybe. It’s a little too much. Just a teensy bit. The person seems to understand, and they gently guide him forward with a steady pressure to the back of his head. Not forceful, but definitely more than a suggestion. It makes him feel better than if it’d been as gentle as any of their other touches. 

He feels heat on his skin as he approaches their crotch. It’s higher than he’d expected, so he adjusts his position by scooting forward and sitting straighter. He can still smell hints of linen, so he assumes that they haven’t taken their boxers off yet. _Good._ He swallows down some excess saliva and tries not to seem too eager as he brings his hands from the floor. Their fingers excitedly encourage him with a scrape to his scalp. Even with the clear okay, he touches their thighs first to test the waters. He finds that his hands are icy against their skin. Intrigued, he presses his palms down and grasps at their muscles, warming his hands numb. 

Another tug to his hair, playful if not impatient, has him finally venturing with his right hand to their bulge. He experiments by rubbing over the mass. The feeling of the jutting nubs pressing against his flat palm makes him swallow down a low whine, and he shifts on his knees. A purring chuckle tells him he’s been noticed, and his face flushes with a pout. So much for his suave, indifferent show. He continues on, though, and his hand travels under to lightly cup their balls. The flesh weighs down leaden with possibility. He feels his gut tingle with anticipation.

The sizzle on his tongue becomes unbearable, but he doesn’t want to rush. He tries to lick it off by pressing open-mouthed kisses to their thighs in hopes that it calms the urges, but it only seems to kick his desperation up a notch. His impulse control, which had been low to begin with, dwindles to zero. Without further ado, the broad of his tongue finds itself pressing wet to their clothed cock. 

The tightening of the fingers in his hair is expected, and so is the pulse of flesh beneath his tongue. The fabric of cotton is dry and rough, but it’s thin and leaves little room for imagination, especially when wet. Suzuki pants as he mouths at the fabric, leaving drenched spots as his saliva overflows from the corners of his mouth. It doesn’t taste particularly good; rather, it’s bitter and fragrant, much less desirable than what he knows is underneath. It feeds his arousal anyway. 

The scratchiness of cotton against his puncture wound makes his neglected member begin to fully harden. He faux-sucks on their cock like candy, feeling scented air flow through his mouth with every suckle of his lips instead of flesh. The dissonance only makes him hungrier. He knows what it’s like underneath; this is just to tease himself...and by extension, to tease the person too.

His right hand plays with the moistened spots of their clothed bulge. Now that the fabric is flexible with wetness, he can easily rub at particular nubs. He massages a spot near the middle of their shaft: a concentrated cluster. Meanwhile, his tongue laps up broadly to the top of their waistband, where he’d mapped out their glans earlier in the day. His taste buds are rough with filament, and he feels like a cat with a barbed tongue. He curls it at the nub beneath their slit, periodically rewetting the appendage in his mouth. The person purrs in deep approval at his ministrations. Their thigh muscles tense in intervals beneath his left hand. 

He pulls away dazed and dreamy once he thinks their slit’s nub is sufficiently poking through wet fabric. He moves his fingers to play with it and flicks it with his thumb. Their hand curls sharper into his scalp, encouraging him. He squishes it as far down as he thinks is safe, then massages it in a circular motion. 

The elasticity of it is something to marvel at, even with the restriction of fabric. He wonders if that’s why they could move so little and still milk orgasms out of him. He squeezes his legs together and shudders at the thought. 

So every twitch of his body, every scrabble of his hands, and every kick of his legs in a futile attempt to throw them off of him...they’d all worked against him because the nubs wiggled into his sweet spot. All he’d done was chain-link his orgasm into another, and another, and another. The person hadn’t even needed to use their stamina up, then...

Suzuki hides his whimper behind another dry lick. The air is so heavy with heat it makes him dizzy. He can’t even tell if his eyes are open or closed anymore. All that matters is that he’s breathing. Without thinking about it, he pulls back and feathers his hands up the side of their waist. His fingers slip a couple of times as he tries to hook beneath their waistband, but eventually he gains a proper hold. His success is short-lived, though. 

The person hums a chuckle as they watch him struggle to pull their boxers down, lovingly stroking his head. Suzuki doesn’t seem to register that them sitting prevents any sort of clothing removal. He manages to pop the tip free, though, to which he almost jumps at the opportunity to wolf down, but he...he wants to do this _properly!_ But the fabric bunches up to a point he can’t pull past.

Suzuki, in his frustrated distress, paws at their clothing with a less-than-esteemed whine.

“Please,” he says, pathetically tugging at the elastic to show where he needs help. “Off please, Sir…”

It’s a 180 flip to how he’d begged earlier. This time he’s flushed and teary, and his voice breaks at the end of words. The person croons at his pitifulness, sliding their fingers from his hair to his face. A thumb tenderly wipes away a stray tear from his right eye. It’s a little teasing, a little smug, but he doesn’t care. He nuzzles his face into their hand, seeking every bit of comfort for his slipping sobriety. Just to remind them, he mumbles another plea into their hand, glancing back upwards with half-lidded eyes. 

If his fingers were still on their cock, he’d have felt them jerk. 

Instead, all Suzuki hears is a hitched growl. The fingers on his face press down into his skin a little more severely, and there’s a change in the air. They press their thumb to his lips as if to say _I will, I will._

Without any further prompting, he sucks the finger into his mouth—he’s gotten quite good at that—and teases its fingerprint with kitten licks. He hears a quiet rush of breath at the same time their thumb decides to venture forward and press down on his wound. His tongue gets pressured to his teeth, imprinting its underside with temporary marks. It continues to pulsate underneath their finger, wriggling. Saliva pools around the site, and the salty, painful pleasure of his wound distracts him from the rushed shifting of fabric.

“!” His fingers find themselves falling with gravity like a misstep downstairs. Dissonance frazzles his coordination before his pads slide on warm skin. _Gone._ The thumb slides from his mouth, then, and his tongue quivers before he closes it. He swallows his saliva, keeping his focus sharp so as to not get tempted to dive forward. 

“Th-than _gh_ k…” He tries to say, but he can’t manage to finish his gratitude. The person accepts it anyway, caressing his cheek with a wet thumb. He shuts his mouth when he feels heat waft to his face alongside a vaguely salty scent. It beckons him forward; taunts him. He has to swallow again to soothe the violent prickling in the back of his mouth, as if boiling oil was splashing upwards from his throat. He takes a long, long moment to orient himself. He takes so long that the person brings an impatient hand to the back of his head. They urge him forward with a grunt. 

He squeaks at the force, but he doesn’t let them rush him. A surge of an idea hits him, then. In a one-shot chance to turn the tables, he scratches their thighs in warning, smiling to himself. He hears a huff of mock disbelief from above him, followed by a deeply amused rumble of laughter. They scrape at the back of his head in playfulness. _Naughty._

He purses his lips to keep the rest of his amusement from escaping, then backs away a safe distance. Their hand stops him from going any farther than a few centimeters. It’s enough, though, for his hands to find the space to move. Shakily, he brings his hands closer and closer to cup their member, feeling the heat begin to become contained in his fingers. 

A soft gasp escapes him at the first touch of solid heat. Their flesh tickles his quivering fingers. Just to test, he wraps only his right hand firmly around their shaft, letting his left rest on their thigh. Another flood of saliva fills his mouth at the jerk in his hold, alive and pulsing. A whimper escapes him when he realizes his hand isn’t big enough to wrap around their girth—so _big._ His fingertips barely touch his thumb at the reach-around. Even so, he’s taken this down his throat before; taken it in his body...

A needled surge of arousal rips through his gut, making his nerves stand on their tippy-toes. He twists his hand around to bring his thumb to the middle of their shaft, then, shivering at the same time a hiss escapes the person. Friction from the nubs burns his palm, and he knows there must’ve been a mix of pain in their hiss. More than anything he’d love to lick them wet and slippery. He paces himself, though, because he wants to make this count. 

So he loosens his hold and feathers his fingers up and down, slowly as to not irritate. Their cock jumps and twitches at his fingertips like a rabid dog on a leash. Imagining the sight of it alone makes him squirm in anticipation. Maybe just because he can, he begins to graze his nails over their velvety shaft instead of his pads. The result is a dozen mini-scratches on their nubs, each of varying intensity as his hand shakes and their member urges. The person lets loose a gruff sound of something close to pleasure. He hears the sticky squeak of leather; feels their legs spread farther and their hips scoot, bringing heat and musk closer to his face. 

Suzuki can’t resist.

He dives forward with a narrow tongue peeked out of his mouth, and the hand on his head throws its wholehearted support behind his endeavor. _Come, come._ His tongue touches something firm but slightly squishy—a nub. He circles it curiously, gauging its circumference. When he flicks it upwards, its velvety skin sucks every last bit of moisture left on the tip of his tongue. He takes his tongue back in to re-wet it and tastes nothing but his own slightly-minty, slightly-salty saliva. 

_No good._

The absence of anything else curls his tongue in his mouth like a scroll. Just one _sliver_ of an opening of his mouth and he fears it’ll roll out. An indescribable need for something—and he knows what that something is—rakes at his self-control. He’d only intended for a tease, a kiss, just a little self-indulgence...but the proximity of their cock to his face, beating heat on his cheeks and mouth and eyelashes, surely pearling pre-cum from its slit like sweet honeydew—it makes him lose the last of his will to wait any longer. 

So he parts his mouth and lets his tongue roll out, broad and saliva-coated. His head tilts upwards and raises his neck, skidding the appendage on nubs until it finally makes sustained contact with their slit’s nub. There, he skillfully curls his tongue around their glans as best as he can before swallowing it into his mouth. His eyes flutter at the throbbing jerk of the mass atop his tongue. It’s a perfect fit: his mouth around their cock.

His tongue moves on auto-pilot, then, slavering and flavoring their dense skin using no different a method than the way he’d flavor a Lik-A-Stix. The comparison makes him smile as he sucks and swallows down the collected mix of saliva and pre-cum—more of the former than the latter. Even so, just the barest hint of the savory taste has him moaning quietly around their cock. Something close to a mumbling of _tastes good_ escapes him before he can stop it. He thinks he hears a shaky exhale from above him, but the tension of their thigh speaks enough for him to pay it no mind.

He rubs his tongue back and forth on the nub below their slit, rolling it against his taste buds. The motion also rubs against his puncture wound. While he keeps his cavern relatively clear of saliva, pre-cum collects on his tongue in miniscule spurts. He feels the fluid seep into his wound and drip into the crevices of his mouth, thicker than saliva and murky with taste. It’s not until he pulls back and presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth that the taste explodes with flavor. He hums a highly gratified whine around their tip, then, sucking down and savoring the salted fluid. Their glans pulsates with every enthusiastic suckle. He _definitely_ whimpers something around their cock, then, incoherent yet understandable all the same. 

Suzuki pulls off with a coy farewell swirl to their meatus, causing the person’s hips to jerk forwards and eliciting a low _hm_ from their throat. Perhaps as a reward for them—a reward for _himself—_ he presses a quick kiss to the side of their slit, dotting his top lip with a stray bead of pre-cum. Instead of licking it off— _like a normal person,_ a part of his mind says—he purses his lips. Then, he rubs them together, spreading the thin fluid like lip balm. Some of it seeps into his mouth to tease his tongue, and it takes everything in him to stop from licking it clean. 

In the back of his head, he wonders if it looks nice, or if the shininess of his lips makes him look more attractive. 

He flushes at the girlish thoughts but allows himself to preen at his own assumptions. The deliberate strokes on his scalp making his shoulders hitch upwards...surely they’re an affirmative _yes._

Suzuki doesn’t pull back completely, and neither does he find himself wanting to. Instead, he lowers his head to press open-mouthed kisses up their mid-shaft. He lets his saliva overflow to dribble, staying warm with the heat of their arousal. It supplies thin lubrication. A chirpy, shy-sounding _chu chu chu_ fills the room, interrupted in intervals by a slick of tongue playing with raised flesh. _Like remote control buttons,_ his own voice repeats back to him. The memory makes him huff a breath onto their skin. He rides his tongue in between two tightly-squished nubs, noting how the person reacts with a twitch of their fingers in his hair. 

Soon he’s made it back to the head of their cock. He greets it with a wet kiss to its slit’s nub, then licks it back behind his teeth. A lewd _hngh_ leaks from the corners of his mouth at the spread of collected umami. Molten taste. His sound makes them pulse, and he preens quietly at the reaction. 

While he licks and suckles at their tip, at times even bobbing his head slowly, he re-wraps his right hand around their shaft, tighter this time now that there’s some wetness. There’s a stark difference between the parts he’d moistened and the parts left dry. Thankfully, there’s enough saliva to slick their shaft entirely in scanty lubrication. The subtle _sliq sliq_ of his hand makes his lower half squirm with heat. His left hand begs to slide beneath his sweatpants, but he keeps it gripped to their thigh.

Something fuzzy and a little prickly tickles his hand each time he twists downwards, so he pulls off with a quiet _pop_ to investigate it. He doesn’t miss the short exhale the person makes when his lips tighten around their crown on his way off. His hand goes upwards to wrap around their glans, then, rubbing the ridges of his fingers on its protruding crown. He plays with the prominent nub using the wedge of his thumb. The blippy _shlick_ is more audible, helped along by their pre-cum. As his hand moves, a low, pleased hum tickles his ears. It’s accompanied by a subtle gyration of the person’s hips. 

It’s much the same technique as they’d used on _him,_ after all, and he knows how good it feels. Just the memory of it makes his own penis drip a dollop of pre-cum. 

He keeps his balance with his left hand as he leans forward, forcing it into use lest his fingers go to his crotch to pleasure himself. He’s not sure where he is, but he knows his mouth is near their scrotum. He can hear the wetness of their tip above him; can feel the proximity of their cock to his nose. A twitch might even brush their nubs against his skin. 

His breath fans across and comes back to him heavy and potent. His tongue—quivering, broad, and curious—ventures out of his mouth in search of any place to land. Their cock twitches in his fingers, then, perhaps from the view the person has of his parted mouth and glazed eyes. In response, he swipes his thumb upwards, wet and shining with copious amounts of pre-cum. He gently rubs it back and forth on their dipped slit. _Schlick, shlick._  

A startled growl jerks their hips forward at the same time his tongue meets the middle of their shaft’s base: one lonely nub atop their scrotum. Wetness touches his nose too. He giggles at the feeling, nuzzling their shaft with a smile. His thumb lets up for the moment, but a strand of pre-cum still connects his pad to their slit. A scratchy kind of chuckle comes from above him. With the loss of stimulation, their hand momentarily loosens its grip on his hair. It tightens as expected once he resumes his careful rubbing of their slit. 

Suzuki has to purse his lips to hide his smug little smile. He knows how good that feels.

Emboldened, he goes back to lick at the nub he’d found and tongues it curiously. It’s a bit firmer than the rest of the nubs, but it’s not as noticeable as their slit’s. He can’t remember if it’d been there before.

Well, all that matters is that he knows it’s there now. He gives it a gentle, acknowledging kiss. Leaning so close touches his nose to their shaft.

 _Schlick, shlick._ The sound of their pre-cum is familiar, yet it’s exciting in a way it hasn’t been before. The person’s muscles hold tight with forced stillness, vibrating with self-control alongside every rock of his thumb. He wonders if they can feel it: the crevices of his fingerprint, the tease of his nail. He knows _he_ can when _they_ do it to him. In fact, they’d bullied his slit so much that his urethra is now left open and vulnerable; raw; inflamed...

The sudden focus on his chafing penis makes him squirm. To distract himself, he bends down a bit more to kiss one of the sacs hanging heavy, giving it a kitten lick as a promise he’ll come back. _Schlick_ goes their slit with a downwards grind of his thumb, and somehow he feels it in _his_ slit too: the callus, the dull edge of a nail. It makes him let loose a sticky, sticky whimper—stickier than the pre-cum adhering his underwear to his tip.

He then drags his slightly pruned thumb down to the nub below. His nail only barely catches into their meatus. Their muscles jolt beneath his left hand at the slick slurp of fluid, quiet yet deafening to his ears. Their nails dig unforgivingly into his scalp, but it’s not in punishment. Suzuki doubts they even know they’re doing it. 

A low beam of pride settles on his face in the form of a smile. He’s doing good if they’re dripping this much pre-cum, right? So much has collected on his thumb that he can spread it thickly on their slit’s nub. He rubs it in a circular motion, firm and steady, and he feels their thigh slowly unwind from its erratic spasms. His hand is slippery with fluid, thickened now that he’s been massaging it into his hand and onto their cock. 

Like a sauce. 

So he jerks the full-length of their shaft with long, fluid motions, making use of his wrist. He knows they like it when he twists his hand tight—he remembers their fingers twitching in his hair—so he does it the way he remembers. His thumb kneads at their slit’s nub on every upward motion, taking its time. 

As his hand moves up and down their shaft, the differing tightness of his grasp lends itself to the varying noises teasing his ears with memory. He tries not to squirm anymore than he has to. His underwear is too rough, too fibrous...too dangerous...and his urethra too vulnerable. The fabric of his underwear is about the same texture as the hairs grazing his hand on every downward motion—their pubic hair. It feels neat and trimmed. He wonders what color the hair is, obsesses over the thought. White? Lavender? Black? He can’t remember. He wishes he could see. 

But just this much is good. He wouldn’t ask for anything more. 

He tests the slickness of their shaft by squeezing tight—as tight as he knows is pleasurable, anyway—and jacking them with a slow fist. The motion still burns his palm more than he’d prefer, but at least it’s wetter at the tip. The slick on their nubs gives their shaft a slimy type of feel, but it’s pleasant and fun. 

When he makes it back to their crown, he squeezes tighter to test the limits. It shouldn’t be surprising that his hand makes an _obscenely_ loud squelch, but he jumps anyway, freezing in place. The person impatiently tilts their hips upwards to his face with a grunt, and their hand nudges him forwards. They seem to have enjoyed it, but…

He tries to resist as amiably as possible, feeling more than a little pleased when they settle at a press of his left hand. _Just be patient,_ he promises. He strokes their thigh in a way he hopes is reassuring. 

Thankfully, it seems to work. The person makes a soft _hm,_ then eases away the pressure on his head.

As a reward—and also because he needs more lubricant—he keeps his grip on the head of their cock. He brings his index overhead to their slit, curling it to form an arc. He tries his best to remember how they’d done it: a cage of three moving fingers. His index, thumb, and...middle? He tries it out, pressing the curve of his index down on their slit. Meanwhile, his thumb rubs circles on the ridge of their crown. The web between his thumb and index catches and flicks at their slit’s nub. 

The coordination is a struggle, but he’s sure it was done this way. Their muscles are wrung tight beneath his left hand, so it must feel good, but...he can tell he isn’t doing it quite right. The fingers in his hair twitch with every pass of his index of their slit, so he knows _that’s_ okay. His thumb, too, is making good noise with every rub. It must be his middle finger then, which has been staying awkwardly to the side as the other two worked.

But how had they used  _their_ middle finger on him? He doesn’t remember. 

He pauses, then, and tries to figure out what he’s doing wrong. He doesn’t notice the way their thighs slump to the recliner at the loss of sensation. What he _does_ notice, though, is the increased pressure on the back of his head, as well as the restive shifting beneath his hands. Something like a growl backs his focus into a corner. His face pales at the sound, but the hand in his hair—still gentle, purposely leaving its nails from his scalp—keeps him grounded. It’s not until they rock their hips into his slackened hand that it clicks. 

 _Oh._ He’d forgotten he was...

Suzuki hurriedly mumbles an apology. His hand revitalizes its grip on their cock, and he twists his fingers in quick compensation. 

One lewd _schliq_ is the only sound that’s made, but several things happen at once: 

His thumb rides the underside of their crown. His index presses down and spreads their slit open, helped along by his middle. A turn of his wrist causes his middle to rub the neglected side of their glans. In all, it’s one turn of a juicing motion, squishing their tip into his grip. 

The person startles into a hiss. With pride, Suzuki feels their muscles contract once more. 

He marvels at how well it works. So _that’s_ how they’d done it.

He repeats the twists, juicing their head with enthusiasm. A slimy noise begins to keep rhythm of his movements, and the person’s breathing falters to an off-beat. His mouth parts when they dig their nails back into his scalp. It’s as telling as the excitement of their cock, which jolts in his cage when he squeezes tighter. He feels a steady ooze of pre-cum from their slit. It soaks into his skin and runs down their glans, slicking his motions until he’s afraid he might slip off. His tongue itches to lick it all clean, but he bars it behind his teeth.

Suzuki wonders if it feels as good for them as it does for him. He hopes it does. He prays that he’s doing well. His own member aches between his legs, beckoning any touch. But this time, he keeps his hands away and his hip movements minimal. All of the grinding he’d done earlier is catching up to him, and he struggles to maintain his breathing. 

Already...already he feels like he’s going to come. Every twist of his fingers...every squelch of the fluids pruning his skin echoes into his own penis, soaking wetness to the front of his pants. It’s no good; no good no good; 

He knows he must look pathetic: squirming in between their legs with a damp crotch and teary eyes. But he can’t help himself; can’t. How can he, when he knows how good it feels? When the person is so pleased with him that their cock is twitching in his fingers? 

“Hn…” He can’t swallow his whine fast enough before it slips out as a whimper. All of the collected arousal in his throat blocks the way.

His own fingers—he visualizes it in his head, how it must look: glistening and messy, slithering over their tip at random, their flesh plump and bullied by his grip. He wonders if their cock has changed colors; if it _would_ change colors, like his does. He knows how cherry-like his tip becomes; how red and hurt it looks when it’s tormented, crying seminal fluid. He knows how cruel the person’s fingers would look, too—calm white against a tortured red: rubbing, rubbing, rubbing and _rubbing_ with no care of the fluid lubricating the massage; with no care of whether the fluid was semen or pre-cum or _urine_ and he—

He can’t—he can’t he can’t. He digs his nails into their thigh with a strained keen, toes curling at the tipping edge of what feels like an orgasm. He feels something hot—something different—moisten his pants, but he can’t tell what it is. There’s too little to tell. His right hand stays steady with its corkscrew juicing, just like their hand had done when _he_ came. Hearing the continuous _schlick-schlick-schlick_ keeps him at pleasure’s mercy. His muscles clench tight as his breathing breaks into stuttered heaves. The ghostly pleasure on his penis, the slick rubbing, the noises; keep quiet keep quiet _they’ll hear me Sir!_ _please stop please stop;_ it’s too _much—_

A moment of decision straggles his spiral downwards: he releases their tip and slides his hand down their shaft. Immediately, the pleasure in his groin fades. What’s left is sticky, sticky hypersensitivity. Every twist of his hips is a spike of pain, but it’s to the point that he can’t stop himself from responding to it like pleasure. But it’s okay—doesn’t matter. Their cock is wet now, much wetter. His palm slides smoothly up and down, and a crackling pop of slick accompanies every squeeze of his hand. Relishing in it draws his attention away. He feels their legs flex outwards, easing now that their slit is no longer played with. Their hand forces him forward, and the thick growl he hears tells him he has no room to argue.

But he hadn’t planned on fighting it anyway.

He covers his bottom teeth with his tongue before following the push. He has to welcome them properly. He’s a good boy, that’s why, and the person agrees with a grunt. With his hand, he holds their shaft steady. Their glans slides over his tongue and into his mouth, greeting him with a pass of their slit’s nub. Compared to how smooth their cock is, his tongue is rough with texture. He wonders if it feels good—if the person can feel his papillae dragging against their meatus. He doesn’t have any experience with oral to possibly know, but still his gut twinges with imagination. 

Their hand guides him down further this time, chasing down his itch. He feels something trickle down his tongue, pulled along not by gravity but cohesion and adhesion. He lets it drip without swallowing, and the trail continues like a snail, leaving behind a mucous glisten. The droplet invades deep. He’s sure he’d be able to track it all the way down to his belly if he focused hard enough.

He stops them from pushing any deeper than he wants by wrapping his hand firmly below his mouth. His lips hit the sides of his index and thumb like an awkward kiss. After some unsuccessful nudging, the person lets up the pressure but seems to scratch him as an afterthought. A warning against pulling off it feels like. 

He has no desire to disobey, so he hums around their shaft, glancing up from his lashes. _Yessir._

He preens at the low growl he gets. Finally, he swallows the collected fluid in his mouth, shivering his eyes closed at the feeling more than the taste. He pulls his head far back enough to elicit a warning snarl, to which he giggles at. A suckle to their glans, as well as a curled lick to their slit’s nub, is enough to appease them. Their hand loosens enough for him to adjust his position. _Phase two._

He slides his knees forward to encompass both his forearms between their thighs, nestling him tight. Then, he slicks his right hand up to his mouth. The massage against his palm is something he relishes. Finally, he moves his neglected left hand to their shaft, feathering it curiously to find the right place to clasp. His dry fingers exaggerate the sliminess of their cock. 

He wraps it around the unattended parts of their shaft. Then, he twists up and down to slick his palm. Just because it’d be a waste not to, he also bobs his head on their glans, though the movement is shallow. He only goes so far as to spread his lips past their crown and back, snaking his tongue to lick at what he _thinks_ is their frenulum—their slit’s nub. 

He wonders, in a deep part of his mind, if it’s supposed to feel this good. All he’s doing is licking at a penis in his mouth, on his _knees_ no less, yet he’s on the verge of tears. He thinks it’s not so much the physical sensation but the euphoria of feeling fluid dribble onto his tongue. Every tug to his hair tells him he’s doing well, and every twitch tells him he’s being enjoyed.

Suzuki opens his eyes soft and reverent. He focuses on breathing while he feeds their cock deeper into his mouth, feeling his lips stretch wider to accommodate more nubs. On his way down, he massages their shaft with his hands. The _sliqsliq_ from rubbing circles with his thumbs makes him shut his eyes to savor it. He stops when their tip glances the roof of his mouth. About a fourth of the way down, it feels like. He has to lift his left hand’s pinky and ring fingers for both of his hands to fit on their shaft. 

He tries his best to maneuver his tongue around what’s in his mouth. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven— _eleven_ nubs is what he counts. The ones barely squeezing past his lips aren’t included in the number. As a self-congratulations, he runs his tongue underneath the rim of their crown, moaning at the slightly grimy texture. The person hums low in approval. 

He sucks in his cheeks, then, and hears the hum startle into a cut-off groan. He swallows the fluids and lets it soothe the buildup in his throat. It clears it away like drain cleaner to a pipe. The comparison makes him chortle, and he thinks he hears them chuckle as well. Playfully, he laps at their glans to re-wet it some, and also to taste their pre-cum without dilution. It’s then that he notices their hand is holding its grip tight as if in preparation. 

Out of instinct, he presses his elbows to their legs to stop them. _Do not,_ he warns with a slithered lick to their slit. 

**“...”**

_Please,_ he adds as an afterthought. 

The person lets off, and Suzuki breathes out in relief. Encouraged by an indulging rub to his head, he slides his lips back and feels the inside of his mouth cling to their nubs. The bumps slip out with a satisfying pop. It’s a sensation that only reminds him of how they’d slid into his hole—one group by one; popping his rim grinding into his sweet spot. The memory isn’t a new one; in fact, it’s one he’s thought of for weeks and weeks, yet...his hole still clenches with the same enthusiasm as the first time he’d masturbated thinking about it. 

He twists his hands upwards as he slides off, then, to feel their raised flesh ripple beneath his fingers. It’s effortless after how many times he’s practiced it. The person makes a throaty sound at his motion, blooming warm pride on his cheeks. _Good boy,_ they praise with a carding of their fingers. He slides downwards once more, twisting his hands at the same time. His head tilts for the tip to hit his right cheek. Saliva dribbles from the side of his mouth to leak onto their shaft, soaking beneath his fingers. He slicks the fluid as his tongue plays lazy and broad on their glans. It’s easier to suck at an angle, but the slurp is loud. Every tiny suckle flies out of proportion in the air. Anyone would assume the worst should they hear it.

And somehow that only arouses him further. 

He wonders if he would’ve been able to keep hidden if he’d sucked the person off during the marathon. The prospect makes him squirm. It’s not like the person is visible to the kids, so all they’d see is him on his knees making obscene slurping noises, right? The thought is both hilarious and exciting. _He_ wouldn’t be invisible, and the dark blotch on the front of his pants would speak volumes. His hands itch to confirm the dampness he feels on his groin, but he keeps them glued to their shaft. 

It’s no good, he tells himself, it’s no good that he’s getting all worked up again. But he can’t stop imagining how he’d have to mask his soft little suckling noises; the sounds of him choking on their cock should he become too adventurous; his gurgling when he lets them fuck his throat. The creak of the recliner as they move their hips. 

Before he knows it, his mouth slides downwards of its own accord—he hadn’t meant to, he swears—until only the index and thumb of his left hand can fit alongside the five fingers of his right. It’s the dirtiest OK sign he’s ever made. 

His head bobs up and down the midway point of their shaft, and his hands twist in tandem to provide more stimulation. The sounds his mouth makes are wet and clean compared to the dripping slobber he feels on his hands. _Schluck schluck schliq._ He sucks and sucks to feel the drag of elastic skin against his tongue, and as his head moves, he takes notice of how smoothly he does it. He tries to imagine it, then: his mouth as his hole, and their cock driving into it. It wouldn’t move this smoothly, would it? Because his rim would grip at their cock as it tried to slide in; their nubs would hit stretchy resistance and have to fight their way past. 

Unless—and he makes a pitiful, pitiful whimper around their shaft at this thought—they used their strength to stuff their cock inside him without care for any resistance. They’re strong enough to do it, he knows. They’ll hold him steady by the waist, bruise him with handprints, and bury their girth inside his belly as smoothly as his mouth takes them in. Then they’ll rock back and forth with such ease that it’s like their nubs aren’t catching on his rim at all; like he’s not blubbering for mercy because he’d splattered onto his sheets. Like he’s not at all shaking because he’d came the instant he felt those nubs grind into his prostate and now they’re grinding even more and _more—_

 _Nonono,_ he mewls, writhing on his knees. His hips rock back and forth to mimic the rhythm the person would fuck him with, and he can’t—he can’t. Every movement stretches fabric across his tip, and it feels good but it’s not enough. Not enough! And it’s bad. _This is bad._ Suzuki slips off their cock entirely and compensates by jerking them quick and messy. Drool dribbles down his chin at the same time tears streak down his cheeks. This time the stimuli in his belly doesn’t loosen its coil, instead tightening with utter want of orgasm, and his hands can’t stay away. Can’t, can’t, he _can’t_ —but he can’t. He’d lost; he has no right to pleasure himself! But his cock is _aching_ and—and—

His right hand slips from their shaft and plummets to his groin. 

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers. “I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry—”

His fingers dig beneath his waistband, slippery skin dragging against dry. He flinches at the first direct touch on his rawed penis. The pleasure that jolts through his cock is sharp. Just what he wants. He prods at his tip, body jerking with every spurt of _something_ from his slit, and it burns, it burns it burns. It hurts so much his cock goes numb with it, but it feels so good he can’t stop. He rubs and rubs, feeling his hips gyrate helplessly into his hand and his toes curl until his feet cramp. He continues to chant mindless apologies even as his mouth opens to engulf them inside. He hollows his cheeks in a desperate attempt to make up for his dirtiness—his lack of self-control; his filthy, grabby hands; his tiny cock making a mess of his pants. The sting of the nails clawing into his scalp is a rightful pain.

He goes as far as his mouth will let him. His cheeks stuff full of cock, so full that he struggles to breathe through his nose. Bumps of flesh tease at his stretched lips, taunting him forward to take them in, but he _can’t!_ He’s too full—so full. He sucks in his cheeks to feel even more claustrophobic, like he’s about to suffocate, squashing his tongue with the dense weight of their cock. 

His left hand—three fingers: index, middle, thumb—twist and twist on the remaining parts of their shaft—maybe two inches left. Fluid drips down the back of his tongue like blood; murky and potent with scent that clogs his nostrils with salt. His throat works to gulp it down. 

Throughout it all, his nail flicks into his slit with the sound of crackling embers: _sliqsliqsliqsliq._

It feels so good; it feels so good feels so good. He wants to make _them_ feel good, too, so he hums a moan through their shaft. He feels another spurt of pre-cum into the back of his mouth; feels it splatter warm and viscous. He pulls his head back with his cheeks hollowed, throat still humming. A throaty growl sings rightness in his blood. _Good boy._

Something close to euphoria hastens his movements. His left hand moves in separate strokes, milking their exposed shaft with flicks of his wrist. His tongue, now free from being squashed, stretches out to snake around their glans. He swirls it around and around, massaging their tip. He takes liberty in lapping at the smooth, wet velvet. 

Then, he swallows and bobs his head downwards. His tongue stays curled until it rides roughly against their slit’s nub, and he flicks it on the way down. He relishes the hiss that comes from above him. 

 _Does it feel good?_ he asks with a mewl, tilting his head to the side and glancing his eyes upwards. Their cock pushes against his cheek and pulsates with ooze. His sucking is loud and atrocious—filthy. He slurps without shame regardless. His tongue helps it along, grinding nubs past his puncture wound. He bobs his head like that. Once, twice: lashes fluttering, tongue sore, jaw popped, and cheek poking out with their tip. 

 _Does it feel good?—_ a suckle, hopeful and shy— _Does it feel good?_

 _“Yes,”_ he hears gritted out. The syllables grate past their teeth. _“Yes. Good boy.”_

Sheer elation barrels Suzuki past the brink of orgasm. The force of it blows his eyes wide with flickering light. His noises choke around their cock as his body quivers and shakes with stimuli— _feels good feels good amazing amazing yesyes I am a good boy—_ and a fat dollop of something squirts hot in his fingers. Something like lava spreads slow and burning through his cock, and he’s crying, sniveling, blubbering pitiful incoherence as his fingers rub him through orgasm of their own accord. 

He has to take a break...has to stop for a moment—but he can’t. He mustn't! His fingers twitch and twitch on his glans, wavering at his meatus with stabbing pleasure, but it’s okay. It should be okay. It doesn’t sound like it when he’s heaving dry sobs; when his muscles forcefully contract to push stuff—he doesn’t know what’s left but flesh itself—out of his slit, but...

It’s nothing he can’t handle. He distracts himself by focusing forward. It tastes good—his belly is warm with everything he’s swallowed. He’s even gotten used to how full his mouth is. Vaguely, he realizes he’s making sounds: gurgling mewls and whines. He can’t bring himself to stop. Every pass of their nubs over his tongue just seems to draw noises out. Mucus wets the top of his lip, and he sniffles as he sucks to prevent anymore from dripping. His head bobs at a steady pace now, up and down with goo, and the person settles into the rhythm with growly sighs of pleasure. They push and let up on his head in tandem with his movements.

Dazed and curious, his left hand ventures from its place on their shaft. His balance suffers, so he has to move a little slower, but overall he keeps his pace. Gravity helps feed their cock into his mouth. Meanwhile, he cups one of their testicles and caresses it. It weighs down with frustration and build-up; he can feel it in the way it dimples beneath his fingertips. His eyes flutter when he thinks about how nice it would be for the person to empty every last drop into his mouth; into his throat; into his gut. A high moan escapes him. 

He twists his mouth to slide farther down, then, slurping a few more nubs past his lips. His head goes dizzy when their tip hits the far roof of his mouth. A little more...a little more and they’ll breach him. He keeps his position there, shivering, and feels them pulsate on his tongue. They’re throbbing; throbbing and hot. He sucks in his cheeks and hears the crackling of his spit, sizzling with air bubbles. He wonders how they’d feel inside of him—throbbing on his prostate, twitching and spurting pre-cum. 

His cock jumps against his hand, and he flinches at the sudden stimuli. Sharp. A little...a little too much, but what if he…

 _No,_ he tells himself. _Nono._

But his fingers don’t listen. They glide beneath his ballsack to caress his taint, pushing against damp, constraining cotton. His penis presses pitifully against the inside of his wrist. Moisture smears on his skin. The inflamed ridges of his slit are worryingly easy to feel. He takes a moment to obsess over it: the pucker of his meatus; the pain. The sensations are strong enough to distract him from the searching of his fingers. 

He jumps when his wiggling nails catch at his sphincter. _Nonono._ His fingers flick at his quivering hole, teasing. It makes him squirm and rub his abraded glans against his arm. The pleasure is sharp and reprimanding. He whimpers and tries not to move too much, then, giving his own fingers free reign of his hole. The disconnect between his mind and his dexterity drives him to near delirium. 

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows. He’d lost, after all, and this isn’t what he’s on his knees for. But he’s still loose, he can tell, and it’s not like the person said anything when he’d taken his own pleasure with his penis, so...maybe he can…

Suzuki pulls his head back to suck at the same time there’s a _wack_ of something in the distance. He feels the person freeze with an intake of breath, and immediately he can tell something’s wrong. It dawns on him not a millisecond later when light creeps into his peripherals. It’s dim, very dim, perhaps with distance, but what scares him isn’t the light but the footsteps: steady, one two three, closer, louder—

_Someone’s coming_

Terror ices his veins. Not enough light illuminates the person for them to be visible, but surely—surely there’s a chance for them to be seen. Dozens of scenarios play out in his head— _what do I do what do I do—_ and something screeches in his ears to **_MOVE_ ** because this is bad—this is no good no good and why—why are his fingers still—! Impending doom sucks the moisture from his mouth. His limbs crawl with adrenaline; yet he’s paralyzed, rooted to the spot—but he’s _not_ paralyzed because his head is moving down slowly, swallowing lukewarm viscosity down his throat, taking their cock back into his mouth and—

He holds his breath when the footsteps pass achingly leisure behind him. But not once does his tongue stop lapping at the nubs in his mouth, even when the steps seem to pause. Instead all that happens is he feels himself squirt on his wrist; feels the coil in his belly turn white-hot and blazing. 

His consciousness bobs in a flood of ecstasy. The slow patterns to the back of his head are the only things keeping him afloat.

Seconds pass. Then a minute. There’s no incident: no _what the fuck are you doing?,_ no _Suzu-nii? Is that you?,_ no _Haru-kun..?..._ just silence. Silence and his heartbeat thundering rapidly in his ears, in time with the footsteps. Once the footsteps fade to the side, he breathes out as quietly as he can, nostrils whistling. His chest crumbles with every breath.

 _Safe, safe. Unseen._ The ebbing of fear allows for arousal to cloud his rationality, and it’s not helped by the drooling liquid he feels on his wrist. His penis is hard and solid and surely a cherry-red: crying, bruised, terrified. Just a bit more, he reassures himself. Just a little more. He knows he should pull off—he knows he _needs_ to pull off. There’s a chance the person who just walked past will see him when they walk back but—but...

**_It feels so good._ **

So all he does is cry, soundless and silent. He doesn’t know if he’s crying from pleasure or conflict. All he knows is that he has to make the most out of this. He _has_ to...because...this situation is…

Suzuki tries not to think the word _perfect_ but does it anyway. Shame blankets his arousal, but instead of smothering it, it only seems to catch fire.

He recovers no sooner than his movements resume. His tears don’t bother him.

The slick passing of his lips over the person’s shaft is deafeningly loud. He can’t stop. His fingers continue to wriggle against his anus, searching for a place to nestle. His muscles grip tighter than the fingers in his hair once his middle finger breaches his rim. It burns, and he pushes it in deeper to relish it: up until the first knuckle. 

He drags his lips back, then, swallowing a whimper at the long-drawn _sliiiiiiq_ that rings out. It feels like he can hear every bump pop out of his mouth. At their tip, he suckles—quietly, very, very quietly—and begins to rock his hips into his wrist. The motion puckers his hole around his finger, not exactly thrusting it in and out. He moves slowly at first, but…

The thought that he might be seen like this drives him crazy. He’s on his knees, lips spread obscenely around a thick girth, hair matted to his forehead, hand down his pants with a finger in his ass, cheeks glistening with tears, hips grinding against his arm...what worse way could he be found? How could he possibly explain this? 

 _...rub...rub..._ “...ng…” 

And he hates—loves—how thrilling it is, or how difficult it becomes to keep his mouth shut. Already the wet sounds are loud and telling, but he knows no one will notice if they’re not actively looking for it. The sounds of his sloppy penis; his panting; the person’s quiet grunts...they’re both a risk and a joy. But how about his voice, so high and meek it sounds like a girl? People would listen in. They’d try to find out what’s making him sound like that, and then they’ll hear it: his pre-cum, his cum, his sucking.

 _...sliq-schlick…_ “—...” 

And he knows it could be so much worse. So, so much worse. Right here it’s easy to stay quiet. He has something to busy his mouth. _He’s_ the one in charge of what he’s feeling, though his self-control is a bit lacking. But if the person was in charge...if _they_ were the ones doing what they wanted to him—Suzuki barely suppresses a whimper. He knows how it feels; knows what it’s like. He knows how hard it is to keep quiet beneath the sound of a creaking mattress. 

Even when his parents were asleep, he had close calls. A turn while asleep, a snore, a creak out of place that didn’t come from his bed. His heart rate spiked so often he wondered if he’d pass out from terror alone. Of course he’d kept quiet, and help from the person to suffocate his noises made it possible to let himself go. Someone asleep is easy to hide from...but someone awake; someone aware—

 _Nono,_ he begs. _Nononono._ His hips stutter but don’t listen to him. And he hates it; hates it hates it;

Because he could be completely silent while his prostate got eroded by their cock, jamming his urethra with fluid. He could be utterly, perfectly soundless while his legs convulsed; while his hands clawed at the sheets to gain some semblance of identity. His conscious could flow right out of his head, and his cock could splurt all over his sheets or the floor or the recliner with enough force to splatter liquid up his legs and still— _still—_ the person would fuck him through it, and _still_ someone who was awake and aware would go: 

_What’s that sound?_

And what’s he to do then but to scrabble and beg and sob for the person to stop driving into him and making his hole let out all those sloppy noises? And he knows they wouldn’t stop. 

They’ll push him; they’ll push him so far and pin him down. Maybe they’ll do it purposely. Maybe they’ll make the bed squeak even more. They’ll chuckle and murmur meaningless numbers into his ear. They’ll pressure him into being a good boy and staying quiet. To his prostate: grindgrindgrindgrind, or maybe they’ll bring their thumb to his penis and rub into his urethra. They’ll laugh in his ear every time he splurts into their thumb. They’ll make him squeal into their hand, not stopping, a _squishsquishsquishsquishsq—_

“hg—!” he comes and dribbles on his wrist disproportionate to what he feels so good so good but his hips don’t stop no keeps going keeps going keeps quiet _nononononoschlickschlickschlickschlick—_ “—hs—” 

_schlick—_ “———”

His body goes still and tight. His thoughts stutter with the long, thin streams of ejaculate—urine—on his wrist. His eyes flutter and roll, vision dotting with multicolor purple blobs. _Burns burns burns;_ and he doesn’t know which burns more: his wrist or his urethra. And now he’s shaking, near convulsing, and he doesn’t know when his hand had moved to their thigh but he’s digging his nails in _hard_ and every jerk of his body rubs his slit against his wrist. _Quiet. Quiet._ And he’s messy; so messy. Filthy. His muscles don’t even need to contract for fluid to be forced out; it just leaks. 

He needs to stop. He needs to stop before he’s found; before it’s too late. He begs himself to stop. He’d peed himself again; he can smell it. He needs to pull his finger out...it hurts;

but his prostate is tingling. Just a touch would do it good, so just a little more, he promises himself. A little bit more. They’ll forgive him for this, he hopes. _A little bit more,_ he begs to them with a suckle. His hips continue to jerk and stimulate his poor tip, trying to prove to them—and to himself—that he can handle this. He just needs a little more. A little more. 

He knows he won’t reach his prostate anyway. He knows it’s just an excuse. 

But he doesn’t pull his finger out, and neither does he stop. He keeps rocking his hips, keeps sobbing in complete silence. He’s a good boy. He’s a good boy. His wrist is as wet as his face. Pants as hot as his belly.

Heavy shame and arousal coils around him until all he can see is the light that turns on in his peripherals. _The kitchen._ He hears a shuddering rush of breath, then, and it’s from the person—the person and their cock, so heavy, so dense on his tongue. He knows how to make them feel good. He’s practiced it like a good boy. He _needs_ to make them feel good—they’re the only reason he’s feeling this way after all. He loves it, loves it loves it loves this loves them—

So he scoots forward and hears the squish of his penis on his wrist; feels his middle finger grind deeper into his hole; and hears the opening of a fridge. His nose breathes a whistle.

_For you_

With a feeling of dazed reverence, he slides his lips down their shaft. He feels their glans rub past the ridge jutting from his palate, gliding slippery to the back of his mouth. _Tickles._ But the sting of swallowing down his itch compensates. His lips stretch thinner the closer he gets to the base, and his mouth is so full that his reflex is to swallow fruitlessly in hopes of clearing the blockage. The person makes an audible intake of breath, then, like sucking in their teeth. They tug at his hair in no discernable direction. Do they want him to stop? Want him to keep going? 

He keeps going regardless. He wants to.

He’s sobered enough to know where’s going now. When he adjusts his position for better leverage, though, an exposed part of his urethra accidentally drags against his skin. It seems the hole has stretched enough for that to happen. A high, breathy noise of distress escapes him, and he tries to reign in his shivering. The scorching pain rides directly to his prostate. He has to wait until the stimulation fades before moving again. Everything—from his mouth to his penis to his hole— _hurts,_ but it’s good; so good. 

Especially when the person is so clearly enjoying themselves. 

Once the sensations recede, he begins to test his position by slowly bobbing his head. His lips drag from near their base to their tip, sliding past his palate on each downbeat. He holds himself steady by gripping his left hand to their thigh. His grip is strong enough for his forearm to quiver with effort. As he gradually speeds up, though, gravity lets him release the tension in his arm. 

There’s a definite _squick-squick-squick_ with every movement, but it’s quiet enough that he has no care for it. If anything it sets a tempo for him to rock his hips to, and suddenly the sound doubles in volume. He wills himself to stop making so much noise, but alas...his lower half has a mind of its own.

Behind his moist noises, he hears a far-off thump: a water bottle being placed into the fridge. Then, he hears a sigh: deep, weathered, and masculine—but distant. Not from above him but far away. _Uncle Misaki,_ his mind tells him. It has to be. It can’t be anyone else. 

And his skyrocketing adrenaline feeds his arousal to a roaring flame. If it were the children who found him, he could easily play off his mess. Even Aunt Emi would be favorable to his excuses. But Uncle Misaki…

Suzuki purses his lips tight at the thrill in his blood. 

He soon finds a rhythm that allows him to naturally hollow his cheeks at the tip of their cock. He does so soundlessly; skillfully. With his tongue, he plays around their nubs: counting, worshipping. It’s easier when it isn’t squashed by their shaft, so he does it nearer to their tip. A few times he even licks back to their slit to dip his tongue inside, and the person cuts off a dark snarl when he does it continuously. He knows it feels good. He can feel it in his own slit, can imagine their knubby tongue dipping and swirling around, just like he’s doing now—

A painful scratch to the back of his head cuts his rhythm, and a yank forward almost makes him topple over. He makes a quiet _nh_ in surprise, catching himself by his hand. His scalp stings.

_Bad?_

Silence passes. Suzuki waits. Smidgens of fear leak from his lips in the form of saliva. Then, another round of tugging urges him forward, this time more insistent but not as rough. If anything it seems a bit sheepish. _Oh._

He hides his giggle with a suck when he realizes what had happened. 

Without further ado, he dives down and hums, less pitch and more vibration. He tries to go deeper this time, but he knows he’ll have to throat them by increments. He’s learned that since last time. As quietly as possible, he slurps a few more nubs past his lips, shutting his eyes to focus. They must be close—he can feel it. Their muscles are wrapped tight, and their breathing comes in sparse, huffed growls. Their fingers seem to move entirely by instinct. They must’ve interrupted him earlier because they were going to come. 

And somehow that makes his heart swell with pride.

He pulls his right hand from his groin, then, popping his finger from his hole. It’s not like he’s going to be needing the extra stimulation anyway. Instead, he rests his hand on their unoccupied thigh and scoots forward. Urine drips down his wrist and tickles the inside of his elbow, but he pays it no mind. Just the thought of what’s about to happen— _God,_ he can feel it already. The proximity of what he wants urges him on: he bobs his head quicker, twisting his lips and sucking the way he knows they like.  

Their muscles clench beneath his palms, tight enough to fear their tendons snapping. He tries to soothe them by dimpling his fingers into their skin, but it doesn’t work too well. The person chuckles through their teeth and palms his head in appreciation anyway. 

All the while, he feeds more and more of their cock into his mouth. Soon something approaches the confines of his throat. 

There he breathes steadily, carefully. He slows his movements until his nose arrives an inch away from their pelvis. The motion is reminiscent of a train’s deceleration. He can imagine the tickle of their pubic hair on his Cupid’s bow. _Soon._ He keeps both his hands splayed on their thighs, trembling with eagerness. He can’t hear anything past the blood rushing through his head, but he knows Uncle Misaki is still in the kitchen. He still sees the light.

It’s his time! It’s his time to show what he’s learned! His lower half clenches in anticipation. Their cock is pulsating, as excited as he is, and every pulse feels like it brushes their tip against his larynx. It itches, itches itches itches. Everything in him is screaming to hurry, but he moves little by little. He _has_ to if he wants to do this correctly. He relaxes his body, brings his right hand to the column of his throat, and slowly, _slowly_ feeds their cock past his threshold. 

It breaches him heavy-set and deliberate. He feels their shaft push up his uvula and past his tonsils, stretching the thin flaps. His eyes haze at the grind of their slit’s nub on the spongey, ridged part of his esophagus. It’s there that he orgasms—unnoticeable if not for his distressed breathing. The nerves of his legs kick in its duration, but his own weight keeps it contained. Wetness splashes into his underwear. Drizzles. Not a sound escapes the vacuum of his mouth. He swallows it all as he twitches: again, again, and again, meek _ng; ngu; ungh_ noises audible only to himself. 

He sustains his slow feeding even through his orgasm. His uncontrollable swallowing sets the perfect interval to slide downwards. Resistance makes every pop of a nub past his throat flicker through his body until his toes twitch. It burns, but mellowly. The things he tastes at the back of his mouth are almost sweet. 

He presses his fingers into his neck until he can feel their cock slide downwards into his tube, bulging the skin above. He swallows consciously, fuller and complete, and feels his muscles work to accommodate their member. His throat staggers up then down. It seems to struggle with the mass plugging him up. 

It’s exactly what he’d expected, and he even feels their cock throb beneath his fingers. It presses upwards, kicking, _alive,_ and it fills him with elation that he’s taken them all the way down. Every breath in his nose beckons their pubic hair to greet him, while every breath out pushes them away. They’re heavy and solid and delicious. He can’t exactly breathe but he _is,_ so it’s okay; and they’re keeping him nice and quiet so—so—

He swallows again and lets himself make the softest noise. It rings high and audible in the air, licking a sick flame up his spine. _Don’t get caught._ The sound vibrates a deep timbre in his throat and hums through the person’s flesh. He hears a bitten-down growl from above him, impossibly quieter than the sound he’d just made. They’re grasping his hair so tightly he’s afraid he may go bald. 

He blinks his eyes clear, then, pleased with the pain. Out of habit, he glances upwards. 

“!” And a spark of excitement perks him up. He can see their silhouette! 

Just to please the mystery shadow above him, he swallows and slides down the final sliver of their shaft, rapidly blinking away the moisture beginning to form. Prickly hair pokes at his upper lip. He stretches his eyes back upwards and smiles with everything but his mouth, wide and lashy and hopeful. He hasn’t felt this proud of himself ever since he’d won the Spelling Bee in middle school. 

 _Good?_ he asks with a wriggle of his deadened tongue. Moving it underneath such weight hurts the root of the appendage, but he doesn’t mind it. The sentiment holds especially true when the shadow darkens as it moves. He can’t track it well enough to really say _how_ the person had moved, but it’s okay. What’s important isn’t what he sees but what he hears. 

But in a tiny corner at the back of his mind, Suzuki admits to himself that he’d like to see just as much as he hears. 

“...”

He shakes off the fluff of negativity by focusing on what he’s blessed with. He can hear the person’s teeth shred their breathing. Something in the way the air whistles carves a monstrous maw in his head. It’d be scary if he wasn’t so pleased with himself. It reminds him of how he’d been called a good boy earlier, with the barest threads of control ready to snap. 

They’ve lasted this long for him. They’ve let him do what he wants. 

Suzuki closes his eyes at the quiver in his bones. 

_Thank you_

And their fingers tighten in his hair, though he’s not sure why. At least he knows his message has been heard. 

With a floaty feeling in his chest, Suzuki nudges against the hand keeping him in place. A sifted inhale tells him of the person’s reluctance. Still, their hand loosens enough for him to begin moving backwards, unsheathing their cock from his throat. Their fingers tighten again, then, at the first pop of a nub going out. Though it’s not painful, he winces at the stacking combination of stimuli. Immediately, the grip loosens. He feels the person rub at the sore spots on his head, almost apologetically. The tenderness makes his face flush for reasons besides the penis in his mouth. 

Every bump clings to his larynx on its way out. _Stre-e-etch, pop!_ is every millimeter backwards. His body twitches at each interval, but he manages to keep his breathing quiet. His leisure pace is in part to ease the stress of his muscles and also to relish the rawness of his throat. He probably won’t be able to speak clearly tomorrow.

“...” The thought forces him to pause and calm down. Worn arousal stirs in his belly. 

He wonders if it feels good; if they can feel how his muscles work. Is it tight enough? Wet? Hot? He tries to suckle just to see what happens. It _should_ be possible now that they’re not all the way down. Immediately, though, he regrets it when he feels a coughing itch surge up his esophagus. He swallows in rapid succession to scratch it away. The person’s hips jerk, then, and he hears a snake-like hiss. Their hand is careful not to grip his hair too tightly. 

Sheepish pride blooms in his chest. At least now he knows both of them can feel it. 

And for him, it’s not only internally either. His fingertips, sensitive and light, can gauge the contractions of his throat through his skin. It’s almost like his neck is rippling. He readjusts himself, then continues to pull away. Steady, steady, steady, until—

A shudder wracks his body when their slit’s nub, now swollen and tight, _scrapes_ against that same spongy part at the start of his esophagus. It scratches something that isn’t quite an itch but a burrowed desire. It digs it out; weasels it down. The momentum he’d built acts like a spring, or an elastic band pulled back and back until he finally lets go. The rest of their glans pops out like a plug, leaving him with nothing more than a punch of pleasure. The spot the nub had abraded continues to sizzle like the sting of a scratch. 

He’s shivering because of it; felt so _good…_ but it’s unsatisfying. 

Now that he’s uncovered the sensation, his nerves cry to flay them raw. And he will. He’s already here anyway, so...he tries his best to relax. He swallows once to prepare himself. Then, he descends downwards but not all the way, instead prodding at the stretchy threshold of his passage with anticipation. Their nubs fray his tonsils with the mini-bobbing motions he’s doing. He hears himself making _glug-glug-glug_ noises, and he should stop, but…he’s here. Just a little more, right? _Yes._ One pop should do it.

In the far off distance, he hears a sticky slam. It’s distinctly the noise of plastic adhered by a magnet. The fridge has been closed. 

 _“—ng…”_ he breaches himself at the same time he hears the flick of a switch. He ignores the growing apprehension in his blood—no, _thrives_ off of it. He drags their cock down, down, until the whole of their glans has popped through and their nub is rubbing— _oh god;_ he almost whimpers but quiet quiet he needs to be quiet—it’s _grating_ against his sweet spot. It’s not sexual; not sexual; and yet—

He feels himself squirm. He opens his eyes and shakes at the absolute darkness he sees, feeling both cloaked and vulnerable. He knows there’s still light behind him. Though dim, surely...surely—

He hears a cough that freezes him with a sip of terror. The person jerks him forward, though, kneading the back of his head. The motions are aggressive. Impatient. _Unseen,_ they tell him. _Come, come._  

He tries to recover from the sudden yank, swallowing around their head and part of their shaft to stop from choking. Tears slip from his eyes on reflex. He squirms on his knees at what he’s discovered: swallowing feels _good;_ working his spasming throat feels _good._ He pulls back again, just enough to feel himself stretch around their crown. Their nub presses into the spongy area, right below the root of his tongue. It’s threatening. Powerful. Arrogant and latent.

Then he jerks his head back and rakes the nub up his spot. Their glans pops out with a satisfying clutch of his muscles. He swallows to relish the burn. His fingers quiver on his neck. He doesn’t hear footsteps yet, not yet, so he can keep going. Uncle Misaki is old, isn’t he? There should be leeway for him to keep making these low gurgling noises before he’s found. No, well, not _found,_ but—

 _Doesn’t matter._ He pushes forward and swallows as he does it, ramping up the stinging of his insides as his muscles work to tighten around their crown. Something like a cough escapes him, and he does it while his throat is ushering them inside. He feels himself clench their cock impossibly snug. The person releases a harsh breath, and he feels extra weight added to the back of his head. _Their other hand,_ his mind tells him. But they don’t push him. 

He knows they want to, though.

Just for now, just for the few minutes he has before Uncle Misaki starts walking back to his room, Suzuki bobs his head that tiny fraction of movement. It’s only for him to feel the euphoria of having something so deep and dirty being rubbed raw. After all, when’s he going to be able to do this again? 

So he takes his fill: he does it again and again and again, losing track of his movements and losing track of time. Somewhere through it, his own cock hardens in his pants, but he ignores it. This is enough, just this is enough. He keeps the noises clean with his continuous swallowing, though in return he can hear himself gulping. Like a machine, he moves, forgetting the strain of his muscles. All that matters is that he does this here and now. 

Until finally, he hears footsteps trail towards him. Less fear floods him this time around, though a spike of adrenaline makes his cock twitch. Vaguely, he notices the person’s breathing deafen—and it’s only then that he realizes how harshly they’d been breathing before. He keeps going a few more runs—down, up, _pop,_ down, down, _grate,_ swallow, up-swallow-down **_-grateGRATEGRATE-_ **swallow-pop. 

He knows he’s being quiet enough to be risky, and being risky builds a coiled thrill. 

When the footsteps are three away from being too close, he breaks his rhythm and swallows their cock whole. He disregards any resistance in his throat; rips past his spongy sweet spot.

In an instant, a deafeningly inaudible breath travels to his ears. He’s not sure if it came from the person or from him, but he’ll guess it was from the person because there’s _no way_ he could take that big of a breath when their cock is shoved down like—

Suddenly, their nails dig into his scalp and hold him in place, both hands pressing him down down down until his nose touches their skin and they’re so _deep_ and only now does he register how the rest of their shaft had been **_GRINDING_ ** down his bullied sweet spot; nub after nub after nub rubrubrubrubrubzzzz and oh _g-god_

His own voice stutters in his head as the sensations overwhelm his body, but he knows he needs to keep quiet—he holds his breath, quiet quiet—even as the person gyrates their hips into his throat, pressing his lips to their pubic hair in a kiss. The sounds of their squishy grinding resonates inside his head; pre-cum and saliva on his inner walls; do they feel the texture of his esophagus? Do they like the heat? Do they like how close he is to choking?

He comes, he thinks he comes for sure he comes he’s wet in his pants so hot so hot so hot sohotsohot 

Their cock throbs once, twice; and on the third time something floods and sputters into his throat. Their member pulsates enough for his fingertips to feel his skin thud like a heart’s housed in his neck. He’s sure he could follow the heat of their semen down into his stomach with touch alone, but he has neither the will nor the strength to move his fingers. He keeps them there like he’s checking for a pulse. Grips it tight as he rides his orgasm in silence. His hole clenches in time with it, and jolts of pleasure electrify his penis: overstimulated, messy, crying. 

Still, he holds his breath as his throat works to swallow the spurts of semen. Each throb pumps copious fluid into his body. Heat heat heat heat—he wonders if it had been this much last time. 

Uncle Misaki’s footsteps pass behind him without incident. His heart hammers in his chest loud enough to thump the air. He wonders how deaf Uncle Misaki must be if he can’t hear _that._

The person’s cum is honeyed and slow-traveling, dense enough to mask his diligent— _frantic—_ swallowing. Somewhere in there, he realizes that the person is still lightly thrusting into his mouth, rocking his head back and forth to milk themselves. Their viscid fluid coats his esophagus and allows for a smooth glide. Though it masks much of the satisfying burn he’d felt from rubbing his walls raw, a more brunt-forced pleasure seeps wetly into his gut. 

He’s so focused on remaining quiet that he doesn’t notice the sound of a door closing. It’s only when the person starts groaning, low and growly, that he happily assumes he’s no longer at risk of discovery. 

Something in the shoved-back recesses of his mind snuffles in curiosity. He’s nowhere near capable of checking it out. 

Instead, he remains dazed and borderline catatonic as the flood trickles to an ooze. He ingests it all without thought. Floaty pleasure blushes his cheeks when he feels the warmth in his stomach. He’s not sure when his right hand had moved from his neck to their thigh, but it’s there, and it’s convenient. He slumps his weight into them, leaning dizzy. 

Like a ragdoll, the person continues to tug his head backwards by his hair. Then, they push his head back down with a sigh. They’re more relaxed now, moving him single-handedly. If anything the movements seem self-indulgent. His throat, relaxed and spasming in its overuse, pardons their cock without a fuss. 

It feels a distant kind of good. The movements are rhythmic enough to lull him into a sleepy haze.

Soon, their hand loosens its grip on his hair. He sags limp on their body, then, like a slime toy dropped to the floor. They hadn’t bothered to slide out of his mouth, and neither does he have the strength to lift his head. Their flaccid cock stays nestled comfortably inside of him. Their glans is past his throat and his lips are stretched around their shaft. He remains there, breathing steady—though his breaths are shallow—and with his eyes half-lidded. 

He thinks he’s about to pass out.

He feels the person’s hand travel downwards to his face. Their fingers, gentle and curious, brush back his sweaty bangs to reveal his eyes completely. His hair clumps together and stays back. Suzuki blinks at nothing in particular, rolling his gaze to and fro. He thinks he could sleep like this, with his mouth stuffed and his body used. 

The person croons at whatever they see. A thumb rubs beneath his right eye, brushing away a tear and smearing a streaked stain. 

 _“Good boy,”_ he hears, so infinitely pleased and approving. Suzuki hums a muffled response around their cock, eyes closing at the pleased buzz in his chest. So warm. He has half a mind to nuzzle into the hand but is ultimately too lazy. Instead, he hums once more as a substitute for _good night,_ fully intending to fall asleep where he’s at. Right here is warm and nice, and the person is petting his hair. They’re right here in front of him, so they won’t leave. So—...so...

“...” 

Suzuki opens his eyes and wills himself to move. First things first is that he acknowledges their hand with a tilt of his head. His muscles painstakingly contract to start the motion. Their hand helps by pressing closer to his face, and he shivers at the heat of their palm despite being damp and sweaty himself. He wishes he could never leave.

But he has to, so he takes the strength he’d gained and uses it to move off. His bones creak and sing cramps through his body, but it’s a carnally satisfying pain. Their hand slips from his face and to the back of his head. He mumbles around their cock in gratitude when they trace a couple of patterns into his hair. He doesn’t miss the stutter of their fingers when he talks, but it’s not his focus. The patterns ease away some of the tightness in his limbs. Once again, he finds himself wondering if it’s really a placebo effect. 

But right now, all that matters is that they’re satisfied. 

His body quivers as he pulls their limp member from his lips. It pops in all the same places, but now it’s smoothed by their fluid. He moves so slowly that the length seems to stretch on and on. He knows it shouldn’t be as large as it was when they were erect, though. Now, the bumps are only partly noticeable. Rather than a grinding motion, it’s more like they’re running against his walls. Rippling. 

Soon enough, and perhaps _too_ soon, he’s left with only their tip in his mouth. 

The rest of him feels empty. 

So he plays with it a little. He’ll admit it’s just to keep a part of them inside. He suckles on it; runs his tongue over it; rolls it around. The person makes an enigmatic _hm_ but lets him do as he wants. Their hand rests on his head as a comforting reminder. Now that his tongue isn’t crushed by weight, it tingles and prickles with remnants of stimuli. His puncture wound feels—not hurts—the most. So he slides down a little more...just a little...and rubs the wound against their slit’s nub. 

It feels good. More self-soothing than for any sexual gain. 

But now he can taste something: mellow, sweet; only a touch bitter from salt. _Must be residual semen._ The thought perks him up. He hadn’t tasted much of it in his daze. It gives him incentive to pull off, then, but not without a final, teasing lick into their slit. As expected, the person inhales sharply, twitching the fingers on his head. He hides his smile behind their shaft.

Then, he slides his right hand from their thigh and moves it to their base. Doing so forces him to scoot back to preserve his spinal health. His back throbs in pain anyway, but he doesn’t mind it. All he’s focused on is pressing soft, dry kisses on their flaccid member. Words of gratitude and worship—and love, but he’ll keep quiet to himself about that one—flow through his head of their own accord. He hopes it translates through his kisses. He knows he’s too much of a coward to say any of it aloud. 

By the time he’s at their base, he’s pressing close enough for his lashes to brush against their skin. It’s an awkward position: he feels like he’s about to crawl through a narrow hole, and he’s peeking inside to see if he fits. Nonetheless, it works the best. Their mass hangs ominous and heavy over his face. He opens his hand to press a kiss to the side of the nub located at the middle of their base. _I’m back,_ he thinks with soft amusement.

Just because he’s there already, he leans a bit more and presses a kiss to their scrotum. It’s an accidentally wetter kiss. He licks off the excess saliva, then, and feeling their sac drag against his tongue makes him pause. A bit excited and a little too curious, he presses forward and places his entire mouth on their ballsack. His teeth graze dangerously on their skin, but he stays careful not to dig in. Even _he’ll_ draw the line there. Thinking about the person's sharp teeth on his own makes him shudder, so he doesn’t stay long to risk theirs. 

Instead, he mouths and wets the somewhat saggy, soft skin of their balls. It’s surprisingly smooth, and he obsesses over the texture. It’s not as tight as before, so there’s more room for teasing. The taste is gentle and non-offending. Much like a Fun Dip bar but not as sweet.

The thought reminds him that he needs to lick their shaft clean, but for now...

The person purrs when he takes one of their testicles in and suckles. Without his knowing, his right hand slides up their shaft to hold their member up as he travels below. He switches over to play with the other one, keeping it wet and his suction gentle. His tongue rides over the plump masses with a mix of reverence and curiosity. They still feel full, especially when he sucks one past his mouth, but they’re lighter. Less bulging. He has half a mind to slip his hand beneath his pants to compare, but decides it’s not the best idea. 

Maybe just on impulse, he narrows his tongue. He draws their pattern clumsily on their testicle, taking advantage of the wide canvas. 

Their cock twitches in his hand. 

And he’s not sure if it’s from the sensation of his narrow tongue or the pattern itself. Either way, he does it again, then switches over and repeats it to their other testicle. He feels them gradually stiffen, and it’d be unnoticeable if he wasn’t so accustomed to their cock.

Suzuki smiles, then, and raises his neck to nuzzle their shaft to his cheek. He tilts his head to the side, and his tongue peeks out to give a nub a lick. _One more?_

He hears the person hum in mild agreement, but the composure of the sound is betrayed when they eagerly nudge him downwards. He breathes a laugh at the difference, opening his mouth to press a wet kiss to the side of their shaft. He laps the spot clean afterwards, shivering at the sweetness that invades his tongue. 

He continues to clean them off until he’s covered their member with a thin glaze of saliva. He slicks them lazily with his hand, then bends down to kiss at their scrotum. He rolls his tongue over their balls and grabs a piece of skin between his lips. He tugs it outwards just to play. It _feels_ sensitive, so he has to be careful. He gives the pulled sac wetter kisses and softer suckles. 

He drags the broad of his tongue from their sac to their tip, gleaning saliva. He uses the collected moisture to wrap his lips around their glans, slathering their slit’s nub with his tongue. They’re not fully hard yet, but he feels a familiar twitch in his mouth. He smiles a little dopily in response. _Good?_

The person purrs in confirmation and rubs the side of his head. Something fluttery kicks in his chest.

As his tongue rubs and massages their tip, his hand strokes their shaft with slow, easy motions. His hand isn’t tight enough to ripple their nubs. Like this, he could probably fall asleep too. He stays awake only to feel them in his mouth, and he inches down a bit to welcome the hardening nubs. His jaw is sore and his tongue is tired, but the excitement of feeling them fatten up in his mouth makes his insides tingle. 

 _“Good,”_ he hears. His heartbeat stutters, and so does his tongue. A chuckle and a gentle carding of his hair encourages him to keep going. 

So he slides down a little more and bobs his head. He moves as leisurely as his hand, letting saliva slick his path. The person sighs into the recliner. Their legs spread to let him move. He wonders if it feels as distantly good for them as it does for him. His head is so muddled and hazy that he can’t tell if he’s capable of orgasm. Surely, he is, but right now…

Suzuki shuts his eyes and lets his body do as it wants. His tongue laps and kitten-licks its way around their shaft, and his head tilts to rub each of his inner cheeks with their tip. He lets himself enjoy the gradual stiffening of their shaft in his hand and in his mouth, limiting his range of movement. He pulls off once to kiss down their erection to their scrotum. Their sac is firmer; less stretchy. He kisses it the same way he’d do to their hand: loving, loving, loving. He brushes his nose against it and kisses it again.

Then, he finds his way back up. Soft, treasuring puckers of his lips fill the room alongside his thin panting. _Thank you,_ he whispers into his kisses. _Thank you, thank you._ His fingers feather over their nubs as he moves upwards.

When he coaxes their tip back into his mouth, his left hand loosens its grip on their thigh. His body shakes with effort to keep balance. The struggle is worth the approving hum he hears when his hand cups their sac in its palm. He teases it; rolls it around his fingers; caresses it and loves it. His nails stay careful not to dig and scratch. His thumb curls around and rubs the little nub at the middle of their hilt, squishing it playfully. 

He’d sat up to ease his struggle, and gravity now beckons him down. He removes his right hand from their shaft, and it slips down to rest between his spread knees. He opens his dazed eyes at the damp carpet beneath his fingers. _Have to clean that later,_ but the thought is far and hazy.

Suzuki barely registers the breach of their glans past his throat. His passage is smooth enough to mask any discomfort; and his mind is too fuzzy with post-coital high and his movements too sluggish with sleepiness. One of the only reasons he’d noticed is because of the jerk of the person’s pelvis into his esophagus. 

He peers upwards, then, and drops his left hand to join his right. His mouth slackens and his tongue turns putty. 

_I’m yours_

The person exhales heavily at his offering. Their breaths shutter past their mouth, unharmed by their teeth. An expected curl of their fingers tugs at his hair. They test the give of their motion with a shallow yank. His scalp stings, but he reacts only with a blink. Satisfied, the person begins to slowly drag his head back. He moves with the pull like a ragdoll. Their nubs run over his tongue in a familiar manner, lapping at his taste buds, and he closes his eyes at the licking warmth in his belly. 

He doesn’t know when their crown had popped out of his throat, but he _does_ know when it re-enters. It grinds a dull itch to completion, and his eyes flutter in glowy pleasure. He hears the person grunt when he swallows on reflex. The recliner creaks and shouts as their pelvis scoots upwards, forcing him back and straight. He doesn’t mind the discomfort. If anything the position of his hands feel natural now.

They fuck him slowly. Steadily. He counts the quiet gurgle of his throat in place of sheep, hazing his head past the point of consciousness. The potent scent of arousal and fluid and grime cloaks him in a blanket of warmth. He keeps awake to swallow in intervals, stimulating their cock with a working throat. His gut tingles in the vaguest way, incented by the thought that the person is using him like a toy...fucking his throat while he’s near unconscious...being so slow and gentle because they know he’s not going to resist...taking their time to savor what a good boy he’s being…

Because maybe they’ll fuck him even after he falls asleep. He doesn’t need to be awake to pleasure them; he’s a good boy like that, that’s why. And he knows it shouldn’t excite him, not when something like using him while he’s asleep alerts red flags through every rational part of his mind, and yet...

Suzuki opens his eyes into slits and feels tears slip down his face. He’s being good anyway, right? He’s taking their cock so easily and well. 

The person growls in low agreement, pressing him down all the way to grind their tip into his walls. Pre-cum dribbles down his rippling flesh to the depths. He whimpers pitifully around their base, kissing their hilt’s nub, though he doesn’t feel anything more than a dim spike of arousal. Something like a low groan tells him they appreciate the vibration anyway. They pull him back not a second later, popping his stretched throat with a satisfied sigh. _Good boy._

He wonders how his neck looks as they fuck him. Would he be able to see them bulge his neck as they travel down? Would he be able to feel the individual bumps if he pushed his fingers into his neck? He debates bringing his hand to try, but he doesn’t want to risk his balance. His fingers twitch as he remembers his neck bulging. Surely, he’d see it if he could feel it. Their mass behind his throat...inside of him.

He breathes a mewl. Right now, he’s much quieter than before. Even the person’s breathing is more audible than him. If, during the marathon, the person had pushed him to the floor and offered their cock to him, he thinks he would’ve been able to keep hidden. 

Just for this: using him for the sole purpose of pleasuring themselves, perhaps not even for orgasm and just to keep their cock warm. His fingers curl into the carpet, wet and sticky with his ejaculate and urine. They’d already taken every ounce of pleasure from him beforehand, after all. They’d made him come and come until he was begging for mercy. He would’ve been able to stay quiet while keeping their cock warm in his throat! He’s a good boy, that’s why.

A purr. _That’s right,_ they seem to say. 

The person’s thrusts are still at the same leisurely pace as when they’d started, but he feels them begin to pulse. His head is muddled with time, and he’s not sure how long it’s been since the first orgasm. But going by the way his body aches, it must’ve been long. The thought oozes arousal into his body. So much self-control...to have fucked him unyieldingly at such a slow pace…

It makes him wonder what could’ve been done to him had they used the same technique. Would they slowly stroke his member while he sits on their lap, building him nice and easy? Not speeding but also not stopping? He’d be squirming, squirming, begging for release...dripping pre-cum all over their hand, messy...wet, loud... _schlick...schlick..._ and once he comes, would they stroke him through it at the same pace? His blubbered moans for more would turn to pitiful mewls to stop. 

And when he starts to become too loud, would they croon into his ear: _isn’t this what you wanted? You wanted more, no? Look..._ and they’d start to gently rub at his slit… _schlick, schlick—Good? Right here?—_ and he’d whimper into their hand _nonononossirplease—No? But didn’t you want more?—_ and they’d dig in a nail, flick it back and forth in his urethra; and he’d squeal; come again right there—

_Quiet, quiet. Quiet if you want more, yes? You want more?_

Suzuki sniffles around their cock, eyes and lips wobbly with tears. He swallows his soft cry alongside their glans, cheeks rosy and feverish; body shivering with something that’s not the cold. _Yessir,_ he thinks, shameful. _Yessir, I want more._

The person snarls and slams into his mouth, then, meeting their thrust with a yank forwards. Their sac hits his chin with a slap. A surprised squeak leaks from his lips, and his eyes blow wide before they flutter back to a half-lidded state. His fingers remain flexed outwards in a perpetual state of shock—orgasmed; a quick spurt...again... 

The growling continues as their cock pumps molten sweetness down his throat, and he feels their hips undulate into his spasming walls, pulling back enough to pop their glans in and out of his throat. It rubs easily into his sweet spot, digging, digging—but still slippery and smooth. The fluid is sweeter this time. More concentrated. He feels the taste waft up his nasal cavity and seep into his buds. 

The flow ends much sooner than before, or perhaps he’s simply lost track of time. The person ends their pleasure with a deep sigh before going still, cock buried to the hilt. His bottom lip kisses the nub at their base. His throat continues to fit their nubs snugly with its lazy, rhythmic contractions. He blinks in much the same way. Their hand soothes the clumps of his hair born from their grip, rubbing patterns into his scalp and brushing his strands singular. 

This time, when they’re done, they guide their cock out of his mouth, gently pushing him back by his forehead. It plops out without ceremony. 

In an instant, he’s on it with kisses. The person’s hand twitches in what seems to be surprise, but he pays it no mind. His head doesn’t have enough consciousness to go around anyway. Slowly and flitty, he kitten-licks the shaft as clean and as dry as possible with something that’s inherently wet: his tongue. His hands remain glued to the floor. Too dirty for him to use again. 

He suckles their tip clean of any remaining fluid. This time, there’s a distinct, sharp sweetness that he tries to lick out. The person grunts and pushes him back when his tongue gets too busy in their meatus. Oversensitive? He lets off, kissing under the crown in apology. 

He focuses downwards. As he kisses and licks at their sac, he swallows deeply to test his throat. Even behind the thick residue of semen, he feels it raw and tingly. The carnality of it spreads a shy, proud smile on his face. And, maybe just because he can, and because his dopey little mind is high off the fact that he’s pleased them _twice_ today, he presses his cheek to their ribbed shaft and whispers:

 _“Thank you for the meal,”_ in the raspiest voice he’s ever heard himself speak in, hoarse and definitely kind of painful, 

to which the person barks a surprised kind of laugh. 

He falls asleep not too soon after—still on his knees, with his lips on decidedly _bad_ places—at **1:32 AM.**  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes...i love fellatio very much hahahah hope you enjoyed! much love!!

**Author's Note:**

> barely edited, please forgive my mistakes.


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